Drakken's Replacement
by Late Nite
Summary: Drakken's having a midlife crisis, and some stranger's holding 10 of the world's villains hostage. What could be worse? The stanger can wipe out everyone on the planet. So Kim is called in to help, but can she stop this bad guy on her own? Ch TEN up!
1. The dot that started it all

Disclaimer: I do not own 'Kim Possible' or any other characters of said Disney Channel program.  
  
Chapter One - The dot that started it all.  
  
"Shego, get over here!" Dr. Drakken called to his assistant as she reclined in a chair reading an old paperback book so tattered that it was definitely not the first time she'd read it.  
  
"Alright, alright. What's so important?" Shego asked, irritated now that she'd been pulled away from her book - and right at one of the best parts too.  
  
"Look at the monitor! What's that little dot?" he asked pointing at a small dark smudge in the lower left corner of one of the many security camera monitors he'd installed.  
  
"What little dot?" said Shego, peering at where his finger was pointing; trying to see what was wrong with the picture.  
  
"That one!" he practically yelled, becoming impatient with all the time it was taking her to see the dot.  
  
"As in the little black thing right there?" she asked.  
  
"Yes!" Drakken confirmed, glad she had finally found it.  
  
"No idea," came Shego's uninterested reply before she turned and headed back to her seat.  
  
"Shego!" he screamed after her, now angry at her indifference. "I can't have dots running around free in my lair."  
  
"I'm sure it's just a glitch in the camera," she promised him, sitting back down and opening her book, "nothing dangerous."  
  
"Very well," he said, calming down a little, "but I want you to check it out anyway." "Umm. no," she replied, not even looking up from her book.  
  
"Why not?" He asked, his temper rising again.  
  
"I'm busy."  
  
"You're reading; that's not busy," he observed.  
  
"Why don't you just do it yourself?" she asked, exasperated by his constant talking - it was a really good part of the book.  
  
"Because I'm still trying to get these security systems worked out and I don't have the time to go running around looking at dots," explained Drakken.  
  
"I think you're just too lazy," taunted Shego.  
  
"Ngh." he gritted his teeth, trying to control his anger and not blast Shego to smithereens with the laser pistol that lay on the table. "Very well then, just get one of the henchmen to go check it out."  
  
"They already left this morning," Shego pointed out, her concentration still on the book.  
  
"Already! How much do I have to pay to get some decent henchmen?" Drakken asked himself out loud.  
  
"A whole lot more then you pay them now," Shego mumbled.  
  
"I heard that," he rumbled, his voice darker than midnight.  
  
"Whoop-dee-do," she replied, taking no notice of his barely contained rage.  
  
"Shego, just stop arguing and go check out the camera," he finally commanded her, fed up with arguing.  
  
"Why?" she questioned, evidently not tired of arguing yet.  
  
"Because. Because. Because I said so!" responded Drakken, using the last reason he could think of. "I'm the evil genius around here and therefore you - being my assistant - are supposed to obey my every command!"  
  
"Alright, Dr. D, we gotta go over a few things," began Shego as she folded down her page in the book and set it on the armrest of the chair. "Firstly; we never figured out if you and your genius have been tested, so try to tone that down. Secondly; I'm your assistant, not your slave. Just stop complaining and go check it out yourself."  
  
"Alright! I'll do go check it myself then!" he said wearily and turned to the door.  
  
"Good for you," Shego congratulated him, and then added under her breath: "And hopefully you can work off some of those extra pounds in the process."  
  
"What!" he called back.  
  
"Nothing." she replied offhandedly, once again engrossed in her book.  
  
Drakken turned away from Shego and walked out of the control room, mumbling various curses until his voice was cut off by the 'whoosh' of the doors to the control room closing. Shego returned to reading, and did not once look up at the monitors to see what Drakken was up to. Finally, after what had to have been an hour, she decided something must have happened, because even Drakken couldn't take that long investigating a smudge. She scanned the monitors and security systems to make sure something hadn't been tripped without her knowledge - but everything was as it should be. So Shego tried something she had learned at an early age was the easiest way to fix something electrical - she flicked the monitors on and off.  
  
Just as she had expected, her trick worked and the black smudge turned out to be the result of a magnet being left near the screen when Drakken had been working that morning installing the monitors. She had no idea why he had needed a magnet, or why it had made the black smudge, but that was the least of her worries.  
  
Her boss had disappeared without a word to her, and she had no idea if it had been of his own free will, or worse, a kidnapping. Not that it would be worse for her - but for the criminals who took Drakken, for Shego's temper could be quite scary at times. But since he had been complaining about being bored the entire afternoon, Shego figured the latter was very unlikely, and so once again scanned the screens to see if she'd somehow overlooked Drakken, but she hadn't and both the hover-jet and her air-board were untouched. Her room was also as she had left it - with a few clothes on the floor, along with a suitcase on the bed. Drakken's room was mostly clean, except for his desk, which was completely covered in papers and plastic files.  
  
'Wait a moment, Drakken never has papers on his desk', Shego thought to herself. Even though at times one of the worst slobs she'd ever seen, he'd always kept his desk clean. But now she couldn't even see the surface of the wood under all the clutter. It was as though someone had been rifling through his room, as if someone was searching for something. Maybe she had been wrong, maybe there had been a kidnapping.  
  
Within seconds Shego was out the door, rushing down the dimly lit hallway for Drakken's room, hoping he hadn't been hurt or even worse; killed. But it was deserted, and the only sign of someone having been there was a small note left on the table - in Drakken's spiny yet legible handwriting.  
  
Shego, I've gone away for a bit. Hold the lair and try to keep that annoying Kim Possible away. I'll be back when I feel like it,  
Drakken  
  
'Great', she thought, 'just great!'  
  
Drakken and Shego were supposed to leave the next morning for London, where some of the world's most notorious villains planned to meet for a two day conference. This was mostly to keep up contact between the diminishing numbers of the so-called super-villains - the ones whose one objective was always world domination. It was a perfect chance for the higher class of felons to learn what each other was doing. Deals were made concerning who would steal what and sometimes agreements were made as to where you could and couldn't operate for the coming year. In other words, it was like the meeting of the board of directors for a large company - system wide changes were for better or for worse. Now, with Drakken's abrupt departure, Shego would have to go alone - and she hadn't paid near enough attention last time to learn how the negotiations worked. She didn't want to return to find Drakken waiting in the lair and have to tell him she'd ended up making a deal that allowed them to operate only in south-western Mexico. He wanted to rule the world - not farmer's fields.  
  
But she decided she would go anyway, and try her best not to get the raw end of any deal that was made. Hopefully it wouldn't be too difficult - and if worse came to worse she could light up her claws and slash something. It certainly worked for everything else.  
  
There was the matter of security though - she didn't want the FBI busting into the lair seconds after she left it and then stepping off the plane in London to find a platoon of Marines waiting for her. So, for the rest of the evening, and late into the night she worked on locks, booby traps and security camera hooked up to a transmitter which she lashed onto the roof. Once she was finished, no one could even get within eyesight of the lair without here knowing it. Hopefully that would give her enough time to arm the anti-personnel weapons from wherever she was and then race back to catch whoever the intruder was.  
  
At around two in the morning she fell into bed and tried to get some sleep before her early start the next morning. But Drakken's disappearance kept her eyes from drooping, and she tried to see why he had so suddenly tried to take a vacation. But after an hour of rumination her body's need for sleep finally overcame her anxious mind, and she drifted off into the sleep. Her last conscious had to do with Drakken's birthday; since it seemed at the time to be important, and yet for some reason she couldn't remember it.  
  
* * *  
  
"THAT'S IT!" Shego yelled the moment she opened her eyes the next morning. She bolted out of bed and ran downstairs to Drakken's office, where she, like he had twelve hours earlier, began rifling through his papers, looking for something to prove her theory. Underneath a stack of plans and drawings, in the bottom of a drawer, she found it - an identity card from before when Drakken had been Drakken. Just as she had expected, it said that Drew Lipsky had been born on the 13th of March in 1961. In other words, he would celebrate his forty-third birthday in two days. In other words Drakken was just beginning to go through what every middle-aged person went through - his mid-life crisis.  
  
And for some reason Shego knew that could only mean trouble - for pretty much everyone on the planet. 


	2. Crossing the Pond

Chapter 2 - Crossing the Pond  
  
"Kimba, lets get going, the movie starts in fifteen!" Ron called impatiently from the car as Kim and Monique walked out the front door and down the path to the driveway.  
  
"Amp down Ron - we'll get there on time," Kim replied, opening the door to the driver's seat and sitting down while Monique hopped in the back-seat of the red van. Ron was already sitting in the front, flicking through radio stations to find some music he liked.  
  
"Uh Kim? Do you remember what going to the movies involves? Snackage, tickets, meeting up with Zita. It's a complex and precise process," Ron pointed out and Rufus -his pet naked mole rat - popped his head out of his owner's shirt pocket to nod in agreement.  
  
"Ron, you realize if you didn't worry so much it'd be a whole lot more enjoyable for all of us," said Kim as turned the car on and then laid a hand on Ron's to stop him from flicking. "And leave the radio where it is, I like that song."  
  
"Yeah, but it's a chick song!" he whined.  
  
"So! I'm driving, thus I pick the tunes," Kim decreed.  
  
"Second that! Pump it girl!" Monique, who also liked the song, called from the back. "And Ron, would you mind if I gave you a little advice?"  
  
"Sure Monique," said Ron, turning around to face her.  
  
"You'd probably have a lot more fun, with Zita and in general, if you'd stop being such a pessimist," she told him.  
  
"A what?" Ron asked; a confused look on his face.  
  
"Pessimist, a person who always believes the worst will happen in a given situation," Kim recited, as if from a dictionary.  
  
"Since when'd you start paying so much attention in English?" he asked her, now puzzled by Kim knowing so much about the language. "I've never seen you study."  
  
"That's because you always sleep or play solitaire on the Kimmunicator in English. I, on the other hand, actually listen because maybe, just maybe, it might turn out to be important."  
  
"Kim, please, it's English - when do you think you're going to get asked to write another essay on Shakespeare, in a job interview?" he asked sardonically. "I think not."  
  
"Yeah, okay then. Ron?"  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"Maybe telling you that thinking too much was a little over the top."  
  
"What do you mean?"  
  
"Nothing," Kim replied while putting the car into reverse and backing out of the driveway.  
  
"Uh Kim?" Monique called from the back of the car, "aren't we supposed to have a licensed driver in the car? Or did you get your license when I wasn't looking?"  
  
"Actually, yeah, I did," answered Kim while pulling a card out of her cargo pants pocket and handing it to Monique. "It's a temporary license I can use until I take all the tests - the government decided the whole saving the world thing made it necessary."  
  
"So, let me get this straight - because you save the world on a daily basis the DMV decided to give you a license simply out of the goodness of their hearts?" Monique asked incredulously.  
  
"Yeah, that's pretty much how it went down," Ron replied from the front seat. "But did they give one to me? Oh no! Mr. Sidekick doesn't get to drive, only the famous teen hero."  
  
"Ron? Do you by any chance remember why it was they said you couldn't have a license?" Kim asked him while accelerating out of the neighborhood.  
  
"Because I kept on running into buildings at high speed during my driver's ed course," Ron replied in a singsong voice, reciting the words of the DMV official. "Just because they build the gym too close to the parking lot I have to sit around and watch you drive."  
  
"Are we talking about the big chunk of the gym that was ripped off last month?" questioned Monique, "The one they said was caused by a freak lightning storm?"  
  
"Yeah, that was just so the insurance would pay up," explained Ron.  
  
"And that was you? Going only twenty miles per hour?"  
  
"Forty five," replied Ron sheepishly.  
  
"Thank god they didn't give you a permit," Monique observed, causing Kim to grin slightly as she took a right onto the cross-town highway.  
  
"Alright guys, lets just drop it and try to get to the movie on time, okay?" she called to both of them. "For once we won't have to go running off to catch some villain so I'd like to enjoy this."  
  
Just then a familiar beeping sounded from the backseat, where Kim's backpack was laying. It was the Kimmunicator.  
  
"Talk about speaking too soon," she observed as Monique switched it on and handed it to her.  
  
* * *  
  
"Would you like something to drink ma'am," the flight attendant asked Shego.  
  
"No thanks," she practically growled in reply, dismissing the woman with a wave of her hand.  
  
"Very well ma'am," the attendant said, slightly miffed by Shego's surly attitude. "If you need anything, just let me know."  
  
She got no reply, as Shego buried her nose in the latest issue of Style magazine, this one touting the latest in spring fashions. Feigning interest in the magazine proved too difficult, even for a person as patient as Shego, and soon she placed it in the seat pocket and tried to figure out where Drakken had gone. Having heard that people during this time in her life tried to get back in touch with some sense of lost childhood, she figured Drakken would do the same. The problem with that was Shego knew almost nothing about his past - except for those mind-numbingly boring tales he'd told her of his life during the fourth grade. His home-town was a mystery to her, along with the whereabouts of his friends (if he'd ever had any) or old girlfriends (which were even less likely than him having the former) or family. To give her some idea about where to start looking she'd quickly picked up a book about mid-life crises in the airport, trying as hard as she could to make it look like a gift for someone else. She'd even picked up some corny birthday card, which was summarily tossed in the nearest garbage can.  
  
Once on the plane she opened the book and looked for any information that would help her in finding Drakken. It had proved interesting reading - from about the time she'd sat down to the time when the plane reached its cruising altitude. There was nothing in there about what people did during these times, or what you should do to find them if they leave. It was pretty much two hundred pages of the author patting you on the back and tell you this period of your life is a natural occurrence. Shego could have just bought the birthday card and read that for all the good the book did. So it was up to her to find Drakken, attend the conference and keep about twelve different police forces out of their lair - simple.  
  
Pulling a pad of paper and a pen out of her bag, Shego began to make a list of people to contact once her plane landed to commence her search for Drakken. She knew that telling people outright that Drakken had gone missing would be a grave mistake, and so decided to tell anyone who had asked that Drakken was in Russia purchasing a polyplasma drill - whatever that was. She knew none of her contacts in Europe would ask though - they, unlike the super-villains - were smart enough to realize asking too many questions around Shego was a very bad idea.  
  
For over an hour she wrote on the pad, scratching out ideas and plans, at moments tearing off whole sheets and throwing them onto the floor next to her. It wasn't that she was unable to figure out what to do, but it was that she was constantly revising her plan of action. Nothing could go wrong - Drakken had to be found as soon as possible, before something very bad happened. She wasn't sure what that something was, but she knew it would probably end up as another maximum security prison for her. And plus, he was her paycheck, so that meant until he was found she was paying her own way. But that didn't mean she'd soon be broke. Oh no, Drakken at least paid her handsomely for her assistance on missions, and so she had enough funds to live the high life for over a month. This was of course why she was sitting in Business Class, not back in the sardine can that was the Economy Class section.  
  
"Uh, lady?" the man lying next to her under a blanket asked after Shego woke him with a particularly violent tearing of the paper. "Would you mind not whispering to yourself? It's really annoying and some of us would like to get some sleep here."  
  
"Would you mind shutting up?" Shego asked; her tone icy and threatening. When the man saw her face in the low light of her reading lamp he quickly put the shade back over his eyes and didn't say a word for the rest of the flight.  
  
'So there are some pluses to flying', Shego thought to herself before turning off the light and trying to get some sleep herself.  
  
* * *  
  
"Ron, quit trying to open the peanuts and help me find the plug for this thing," Kim told her friend as he struggled to open the package of airline peanuts they'd been given for a snack.  
  
"Com'on Kim," he protested, "I haven't eaten anything except for a piece of toast this morning. Look at Rufus," he pulled his naked mole rat out of his pocket and set him on the tray table, where Rufus promptly lay back in exhaustion. "The little guy's starving. You wouldn't want him to die, would you Kim?"  
  
"Ohh. so hungry," Rufus mewled from his prone position on the table.  
  
"Ron, cut the theatrics - Rufus is always hungry, and so are you for that matter. Just help me with this and in a few minutes I'll get the flight attendants to bring five bags of peanuts," Kim promised, looking around the crowded Economy Class section for a flight attendant, but after seeing none gave up and returned to her search for the plug.  
  
"Five. mmmm," Rufus purred.  
  
"Alright," Ron conceded, "so what do you need help with?"  
  
"I can't find the socket thingy for the Kimmunicator," explained Kim.  
  
"It's right there, by your elbow," Ron pointed to a small plug in the armrest. Looking at the socket, Kim raised one eyebrow in annoyance.  
  
"Ron, that's the earphone jack."  
  
"What about that one?"  
  
"Ashtray."  
  
"That one?"  
  
"Flight attendant call button."  
  
"And that little do-hickey over there?"  
  
"That's the. I think it's the volume switch, but I could be wrong," Kim admitted.  
  
"I thought you knew what you were doing?" Ron asked, surprised by Kim's hesitation.  
  
"Ron, if I knew what I were doing, why would I bother asking for your help?" she asked in reply.  
  
"Good point," he observed. "What about the socket there, the one with the three prongs." After close examination, Kim decided it was the plug she was looking for and began searching for something in her bag.  
  
"I take it you need to call Wade and the Kimmunicator is out of batteries, eh?" He asked knowingly.  
  
"Nope," Kim replied, her concentration still on the bag.  
  
"And yet this was so important that you kept me from my peanuts?"  
  
"Yep," said Kim, her face brightening as she pulled a CD player from her bag and plugged a cord into the plug, causing Ron's eyes to go as wide as coasters in astonishment.  
  
"You needed my help to plug in a CD player!" He practically yelled. "You kept me from my peanuts for a CD player!"  
  
Kim cringed at his outburst, smiling slightly at his anger over a pack of salted nuts. Just then she saw a flight attendant walking down the aisle, a determined and definitely displeased look on her face as she approached them. Kim decided it would be best to look out the window now, even though all there was to look at was the night sky over a black Atlantic ocean.  
  
"Sir, would you please be quiet," she asked Ron softly yet firmly. "And put your. pet back in its cage."  
  
"Yes m'm," Ron mumbled, his face flushing red with embarrassment as he saw people ahead of him turn around to see what the commotion was all about. As the attendant began to leave Kim called after her in the sweetest voice:  
  
"Ma'am, would it be possible to get another few packages of peanuts?" She asked, her face beaming with innocence.  
  
"Why sure dear," the woman replied, a smile spreading across her face at the sight of such a cute teenager before she went to procure the nuts from the galley.  
  
"There, happy?" Kim asked Ron in a hushed voice, trying not to attract any more unwanted attention.  
  
"Yes," he admitted; an expectant smile on his face at the thought of more peanuts.  
  
"Good," said Kim before she switched on her CD player and put on the earphones.  
  
"Kim," Ron asked. "Why are we going to Europe?"  
  
"What?" Kim said, having not heard Ron's question over her music.  
  
"Why are we going to Europe?" He repeated.  
  
"Didn't you hear what Wade said when we talked in the car?" asked Kim.  
  
"Nah, I was busy flicking the radio," he explained.  
  
"Oh yes, how could I forget," she said, irony dripping from her voice. "And yet you never found anything good, did you?"  
  
"Hey, I'm just picky about my music," he answered.  
  
"Alrighty then. Anyway; we're going to Europe because Wade got a call about a bunch of villains being sighted around London and the authorities figure there's gonna be something big and illegal happening there real soon," Kim elucidated.  
  
"So, were going to play policeman then?" asked Ron.  
  
"That's pretty much it, yup," answered Kim.  
  
"But we get to do some shopping, right?"  
  
"When we're not chasing bad guys? Yeah, we can do some," Kim promised, but upon seeing the 'impulsive buyer with a lot of money' look on Ron's face she knew guaranteeing something like that was a bad idea. "B-but I'm not sure about that."  
  
"Good enough for me! Now, what about those peanuts?" 


	3. Arrival

Chapter 3 - Arrival  
  
Both aircraft were, all across their night flights over the north Atlantic, within twenty nautical miles of each other. And they landed at London Heathrow airport within an hour of each other; Shego's flight barely missed the huge bank of transoceanic flights from the states and so was cleared on approach early. Kim and Ron waited for half an hour in a holding pattern with a frozen banana and equally tough roll to munch on before they were even allowed to descend into the arrival pattern. Once though customs, Shego boarded the Heathrow Express for the city two minutes before Kim and Ron stepped out of Terminal Three with their MI5 chauffeur. Kim didn't even think to ask any of the airport security officials if they'd seen any suspicious arrivals lately, but Shego had arrived only half an hour earlier; and so probably wouldn't have been noticed by security yet.  
  
To those watching the camera it was a usual, early Tuesday morning at Heathrow, with a lot of people coming and going, and no time to check every single one of them who looked a little agitated - probably just because of jetlag. But in fifteen minutes one of them, a newer employee, would notice someone's face and it would remind him of something he'd seen on the news. And then he'd decided that hey, he had nothing better to do, and check up on his hunch. Within five minutes of sending the email with the woman in question's security camera mug-shot attached to his supervisor, the airport's local security service official was sitting next to the new member of the security staff, reviewing all his tapes before finally calling his supervisor with some bad news. They'd got another one.  
  
Sitting in the back of a large burgundy BMW, Kim and Ron watched the scenery fly by as their chauffer raced along the crowded motorway into the city center, where he almost drove on the sidewalks to get them to their hotel. Kim guessed that it being owned by the British government, the car could be driven as fast as humanly possible if needed to. But, while being able to get them into London in what was probably record time, their chauffeur was not very much of a conversationalist, and he only spoke to Kim once, when she was stepping out of the car when they had reached their destination.  
  
"Ms. Possible," he had called quietly to her as she followed Ron out the door, "if you ever need a ride, just let me know - my number's four-one- five-six."  
  
"Thanks," she replied before following Ron through the revolving glass doors into their hotel. She turned to ask the driver what the rest of his phone number was, since she'd never heard of a four digit private number, but the car had already pulled away from the curb and was accelerating down the street. Kim decided to trust that the number was correct, and turned her attention to the interior of the hotel. It was a large, very expensive Marriot in Grosvenor Square, which - from the highly decorative interior and eighteenth century architecture - Kim guessed had not been a part of the chain for long. The reception desk was busy with the arrivals and departures of guests that morning so Kim and Ron had to wait a while before they finally got their room. They decided to go up, drop their bags off and check out their new digs for the next few days before going down and meeting with the people from the government who'd contacted Wade the previous day.  
  
"Hey Kim, you gotta see this bathroom!" Ron exclaimed as Kim unpacked her bag. "They've got like two sinks! And a bath! And a shower! Man this is awesome!"  
  
"Sure Ron, it sounds breathtaking," Kim called back sarcastically.  
  
"Just because you aren't as well versed in bathroom luxury doesn't mean you can make fun of me," he complained as he stepped back into the room, his face still slightly wet from cold water he had splashed on it to wake him up.  
  
"Umm, Ron? We need to talk about something before we go back downstairs," Kim said, her tone becoming more serious.  
  
"Sure, what's up?" Ron replied nonchalantly as he lay back on his bed next to Rufus, who was fast asleep trying to recover from jetlag.  
  
"I'm gonna need you to amp down a little bit when we meet these guys. They're some really important people from the British security services and I want to make them think we're professional. So could you please just try to act a little more. um. normal when we get down there?" Kim pleaded.  
  
"No problem KP," he assured her, "don't worry about it."  
  
"Great, thanks a lot Ron," said Kim, glad that he hadn't taken it too harshly -though she still could detect a hint of injury in his voice.  
  
"Just wondering though," he said as they walked out the door a few minutes later after Kim had changed into some clean clothes and re-applied her makeup, "what's so different about these guys were supposed to meet?"  
  
"What do you mean," Kim asked as she closed the door to the room.  
  
"Well, we've met with a bunch of important people in a bunch of different governments, but you've never mentioned anything about making a good impression," he pointed out. "What's so different about this time?"  
  
"Ron, you heard what Wade said yesterday in the car?" inquired Kim as she pushed the 'down' button on the elevator.  
  
"Yeah, I was sitting right next to you," he replied as they stepped into the elevator.  
  
"He said that there were over five villains who we know all too well supposedly meeting in London this week and they needed our help in case something happened," Kim regurgitated in case he'd forgotten. "That's five different people to deal with, not one, not two, not three, but five. Now, remember how hard it was dealing with DNAmy, Drakken and Shego that time in Middleton, and then think how fun it'll be dealing with five of them. Plus any henchmen, robots or evil doomsday devices they happen to bring along."  
  
"It'll be bad, right," he asked, his face slightly blanched at the thought of so many villains to battle.  
  
"Very," was Kim's not-so-chipper reply.  
  
"And we came here why, again?" Ron asked, beginning to grow wary of the interior of the elevator, as if he expected someone to pop out of a mirrored panel with a knife.  
  
"Ron, it's nothing to be afraid of," Kim tried to assuage his doubts, knowing she might have blown the whole scenario a little out of proportion. "But I think we'll just need to be a little more on our toes while we're on the mission. Kay?"  
  
"Sure," he agreed. "But remember, if we find their secret lair, I am not being the distraction! Even two is a little much half the time."  
  
"Don't worry Ron, I'll try and keep you out of danger," said Kim as they stepped out of the elevator and turned right into the restaurant.  
  
Inside the large, softly lit dining room cum restaurant windows lined two sides of the room and looked out onto London's morning rush hour traffic, while a breakfast buffet was laid out to the left of the entrance. Kim kept a firm grip on Ron's arm to stop him from running over there and being piling a plate three feet high with food, and searched the room for the people they were supposed to meet. With a wave of his hand a youngish gentleman sitting with an older, more distinguished man dressed in a tweed suit and holding a cane in his hand, motioned Kim over to their table. It was one of the few set against the polished stone wall of the large room, in a corner, making it difficult for it's occupants to be seen from the street. The old man sat and sipped a cup of tea silently as his counterpart rose to greet Kim and Ron, extending his hand with a benevolent smile on his face.  
  
"You must be Kim Possible, it's so good to meet you," the young man said, shaking Kim's hand profusely. His faced beamed with youth and excitement, and Kim knew he was one of those people who viewed danger and adventure as something gloriously fun. She herself tried to stay upbeat on a mission, but knew that jokes couldn't save you from a laser cannon, and so knew when it was time to focus and get down to business. But other than that the man in front of her looked like a pretty nice guy, dressed in a navy blue blazer, khaki slacks and a white Oxford shirt. His dark brown hair was parted on one side of his face, and Kim could see the beginnings of a receding appearing there. His eyes, which matched the color of his hair, glowed with the same exuberance that Kim had noted earlier, but she could see some seriousness there too. He too was able to buckle down and get to work, which she guessed was why he had gotten such a highly placed job in MI5.  
  
"And you're Mr. Finch?" she asked, not sure if this was the man Wade had mentioned before they left Middleton the previous afternoon.  
  
"No, no, that's my friend sitting at the table - I'm Douglas Hackney," he explained, gesturing to the surly Mr. Finch, who seemed as though he had not even noticed Kim and Ron's arrival. "Please excuse him, he's had a rough past few days and is feeling a bit run down at the moment."  
  
"Not a problem, I know just how he feels," Kim sympathized. "We got off a flight this morning and I think we're still on US time."  
  
The man laughed, moving back toward the table. "I know what you mean Ms. Possible. Please, have a seat, and would you like anything to drink?"  
  
"Orange juice is fine, thanks," Kim replied, glancing over at Ron to make sure he was in agreement with this. He nodded an affirmative.  
  
"Could we get two orange juices and another pot of tea?" said Hackney to the waiter, who had appeared at the table once they were seated.  
  
"Certainly sir," the waiter said, turning back to the kitchen for the drinks.  
  
"Now, Ms. Possible, this is Mr. Arthur Finch, our man at Scotland Yard," motioning to the other man, who had set down his cup of tea to shake Kim's hand.  
  
"Pleased to meet you," said Kim, joining her hand with his, feeling his strong, almost viselike grip. Either he worked out regularly, or had been a soldier earlier in his life. From the scars and nicks on his face she assumed it was the latter. His hair was parted like Hackney's, but was beginning to thin out considerably and she could see his scalp underneath the salt and pepper gray hair. Unlike his now aged body, his eyes were a steely blue of someone twenty years younger, and Kim immediately viewed him as a determined, hardnosed policeman. A benefit to have on your side, but a bane to the person who was his enemy - he was the one she would probably get the most useful information out of. Hackney trusted sources, informants and reliable reports. Finch trusted his hunches and emotions, which after (Kim guessed) forty years of service, were extremely reliable.  
  
"You as well," he replied tersely.  
  
"Alright," Kim began, deciding to try and not notice Finch's apparent hostility toward Ron and her, knowing it would only hinder their search for the villains. "Would you mind filling us in on the finer details of what's happening here - Wade only told me that there were now over five villains in the area, and that you guys were expecting that something big was about to go down."  
  
"That's very true. We have seen the following super-criminals, as we have come to call them here, arrive in the city through various means: Frugal Lucre on a low cost carrier from the continent, DNAmy in on a yacht from Africa, Dr. Dementor on a private jet from somewhere in the United States, Adrenna Lynn in with some star friends from Hollywood and Duff Killigan somehow snuck in under our radar in his blimp before he was sighted over York. There was also Senor Senior Senior and Senor Senior Junior in a small boat from their island and Gemini broke out of prison two weeks ago as was only seen yesterday in a small pub outside Manchester. Lord Montefisk, or as you know him; Monkeyfist, left his Alpine castle and we spotted him in the London Zoo late last night" Hackney informed her. "Even though we know all this, Finch and I must admit that we're stumped on this one. We have no idea where they are right now, if they're in the city or on an estate somewhere in the country. If they're planning to rob a bank, steal a diamond or take over the entire country, we won't know until it happens. And we fear that we have neither the forces nor the expertise and experience that you possess to combat these criminals."  
  
"All right then," Kim began, getting right down to business, though a little flattered that the British government thought she was better than they were at stopping these guys. "Do you know of any type of classified project going on in or around the city, something top secret and that could be used as a weapon? These kinds of villains seem to love anything made by the government, even if they don't know what it does."  
  
Hackney was the first to answer: "No; nothing that I'm aware of. Arthur?  
  
"There's nothing going on around London," Finch confirmed, speaking with a finality that practically dared Kim to try and refute his statement.  
  
"Ok-ay, do you know of any extremely valuable pieces of art, jewelry or technology that has recently been brought into the country," Kim tried, hoping to get a better response out of either of them. "Like something that they might be able to steal and then sell for a profit on the black market."  
  
"Nothing out of the ordinary, nothing that would require twelve of them to pull it off," responded Hackney, who Kim could tell was the more talkative of the duo.  
  
"What about celebrities, any of them around here right now?" Ron inquired. Kim knew this was only because he didn't want to miss the chance of getting his picture with a bunch of stars. But the two men sitting across from them viewed it as something the villains might have thought about.  
  
"Of course," said Hackney, "but none of them have gotten any kinds of threats and the security we provide them is some of the best in the world."  
  
"I'd double it anyway - I've never known Professor Dementor to send a threat. He usually just blows a hole in the wall and takes what he needs," Kim advised, seeing that while having ulterior motives for asking it, Ron's question had been a good one. Though she never remembered one of her numerous foes doing it before, Gemini or Drakken just might decide that celebrity hostages were an easy source of income.  
  
"Yes, quite." was all Hackney said, clearly viewing the words of caution as a little over the top.  
  
"Mr. Finch, do you have any leads or theories on why they've all decided to take a trip to London?" Kim asked, turning to the older man.  
  
"Nothing's come in through my office, I can tell you that. We know nothing concrete about their reasons for being here, just that there's ten of them in my city, and I don't like it one bit," he replied, taking a piece of toast from a plat and slapping butter on it a little harder than necessary - he definitely didn't shine to the idea of so many world-renowned villains being in London.  
  
"Wait, ten of them? But Hackney only mentioned nine names. Who's the tenth?" asked Kim, confused by the discrepancies in head counts.  
  
"A woman using the name Appleby," he answered, taking a bite out of his toast. "She arrived only minutes before you did on a flight from North America, and I was notified only moments before you arrived. She was using a pseudonym - she's really a woman named Shego, assistant to -."  
  
"Dr. Drakken," Ron spoke up before Finch could finish. "So the gang's all here now, and we have no idea why."  
  
"That's the long and short of it for now," admitted Hackney, who had just poured himself a cup of tea from the pot the waiter had brought over.  
  
"Alright, I'll see if Wade can find anything out, and I'll check back with you guys if he does," Kim told them, sensing there was little else they could do sitting and talking. No one knew why the criminals were there, and it wouldn't help sitting around and talking. "Until then me and Ron will probably do a little sightseeing. Will you be at your offices for the rest of the day?"  
  
"Until six, yes," Hackney replied and Finch nodded in accord.  
  
"Great, we'll talk later then," Kim said, reaching across the table to shake both their hands in turn as they rose from their seats.  
  
"Absolutely, and I want to thank you for coming on such short notice," said Hackney as Finch pulled his overcoat on and took his cane in his right hand.  
  
"Not a problem, just doing the whole teen-hero thing," Kim replied before both of the men rose and left the restaurant through the street entrance. She looked over to see Ron already heading over to the buffet and, after deciding that a frozen banana was nowhere near enough food for breakfast, followed suit and headed over with her plate in hand.  
  
* * *  
  
While Kim and Ron were munching on scrambled eggs and toast, Shego was already heading to her first contact in London. Once in Paddington Station, she had dropped her bag in a locker and headed out of a small side door of the station, trying not to be seen. Constantly searching the street for tails, she then walked two blocks east to a small three-storey red- brick office building. Situated between a Burger King and a block of larger, modern offices it was easily missed by passers-by, but Shego had been there hundreds of times before and could have found her way from Heathrow blindfolded. At the top of a short flight of steps she rang the doorbell and waited patiently until the door hummed, signaling it was unlocked and that she could enter.  
  
Shego knew the lock was not the building's only protection against intruders though - there were cigarette package sized cameras placed all over the outside of the house, along with motion sensors on both the windows and doors. If someone even touched one of the windows when these were armed, massive steel bars would slide in front of the window and the police would receive a distress signal from the house in seconds. In other words, this was more of a fortress than an office - which was just as Shego liked it.  
  
As with the exterior of the building, its interior was bland and uninteresting - only a few cables running along the side of the ceiling were an indication of the amount of technology that had been installed here. Through the door was a small antechamber-like room with a few chairs placed against one wall. A single bare bulb hung unceremoniously from the ceiling for light, as there were no windows in the room, and Shego saw at least three holes in the wall that looked like cameras. She had no time to sit down, since as soon as she closed the front door another opened opposite it and in stepped a small man dressed in a checkered flannel shirt and baggy brown slacks. A headset with both earphones and a microphone rested around his neck, with the cord attached to a cellular phone resting in his shirt pocket. Short in stature, he had a leering air about him, and never smiled, only smirked - he was about as trustworthy as a chronic liar. But Shego had dealt with the man for over ten years and he knew that lying to her would be the biggest, and last, mistake he would ever make. And so whenever she was near he tried to keep at least a meter's distance from her hands, just in case she felt more murderous that usual that day.  
  
"Ah, Shego, A pleasure as always," he welcomed her without extending his hand. "Please, come right in."  
  
"Thanks," she said in reply, walking through the door after him and closing it behind her. This room seemed as though it were in a completely different building - such as the offices of a software company. Six of the most expensive computers available to the public sat on a large table on the opposite side of the room, all humming away contentedly at their ordained tasks, while over twelve shells of others lay on the floor underneath them; clearly in the process of being upgraded. Against the wall to her left stood a row of filing cabinets and shelves packed with client files, new software, old software, and a series of strange blue and black boxes attached to a series of multi-colored cables leading to various outlets and computers around the room. Shego guessed they were modems for a high speed internet connection, but they could have been CD burners and she would have had no idea. The other remaining wall was covered in the screens and dials for the elaborate security system that had been installed which, except for the cameras, was switched off at the moment. 'Odd', Shego said to herself, 'he's so paranoid I thought he never turned them off.'  
  
"Now, have a seat and tell me what I can do for you," the man began, motioning to Shego to sit at the large mahogany desk in the middle of the room while he walked around it and sat down in his very expensive and probably brand-new black leather chair.  
  
"I need you to run a worldwide search for Dr. Drakken, and continue doing it for the next week," she said to him as he pulled a piece of paper and pen out of a drawer.  
  
"A search for Drakken?" the man asked, a hint of disbelieve apparent in his voice. "But. don't you two work with each other?"  
  
"Yes, we do," Shego replied evenly, her face expressionless. At that moment the man remembered who it was who he was talking to and that asking to many questions was also asking for trouble.  
  
"Fair enough; and you want me to search for at least a week?" He asked, scribbling a few notes on the paper.  
  
"Yes," confirmed Shego.  
  
"Okay, I can do that. But I'll need some payment up front - one thousand U.S. dollars," he told her, knowing that she already knew this was the standard rate for his services.  
  
"Give me an account number and I'll have it paid by the end of the day," Shego promised, and was given a small piece of paper with a series of digits written on it in return.  
  
"Thanks a lot, and here's my number. Call me if you need anything," she said before placing a piece of paper with her cellular phone number on it. She then rose from her seat and left through the door she had entered, leaving the man mumbling to himself and scribbling ideas on the paper. A nod of goodbye was all she got before the door closed behind her, but she didn't care. The only thing that mattered was that he did his job, and found Drakken for her.  
  
Once again out in the street, Shego walked to the nearest bus stop and caught a bus across downtown to Trafalgar Square, where she walked down a secluded side street off one of the main roads and into another office building. Half an hour later she walked out of that building with another account number in her pocket and caught another bus heading east. A few miles down the road she again visited another office, and there again she gained another account number. By the time she was done, she had visited over five different bounty hunters and professional 'people finders' - their only job was to search the globe for missing persons, whether for a government or people off the street that had enough money. Shego now owed these people over six thousand dollars in preliminary payments, but the largest bill was yet to come. If they delivered the whereabouts of Drakken she would have to pay five thousand more dollars per person.  
  
So, after she visited a bank and had all the money transferred to various accounts she grabbed a bite to eat at the nearest fast-food restaurant and caught a taxi to her hotel; the Hilton at Paddington Station. There she picked up her bag from the locker and headed to the hotel's check-in desk, which was luckily devoid of customers.  
  
"Good afternoon ma'am," the receptionist greeted her warmly. "How may I help you?"  
  
"I'm checking in, my name's Carla Mitchell," Shego replied, handing the woman her second false passport and a credit card with the matching name.  
  
"All right, let me just pull up your reservation. yes, here it is. A non-smoking twin double bed - is that correct?" the receptionist asked.  
  
"Yes," verified Shego. The rest of the check-in process took little time, and Shego was about to leave with her room key in hand, when she was called back.  
  
"Ma'am, I just noticed that we received two messages for you this morning," the woman informed her, handing Shego two small cards with handwritten messages on them. One said 'Carla, meet me and my buddies at ten pee' and the second 'We're going to meet outside the old office, hope you can make it'.  
  
"I hope I wrote them down correctly," the receptionist commented. "The conversation was very short, and both times the other person spoke very fast."  
  
"That's all right," Shego assured her. "I understand them fine."  
  
"Very good ma'am," said the woman as Shego turned and walked over to the elevators. The messages had in fact been perfectly clear, and her mind was so preoccupied with Drakken's disappearance that she had almost forgotten she would be contacted. Though cryptic to most, to Shego and every other villain who received a similar message knew exactly what it meant - hidden in the commonplace phrases were both the time and location of the conference. It would be held that evening, at ten o'clock in a large, almost deserted warehouse in the town of Slough, to the west of the city.  
  
Shego therefore had about six hours before she had to leave for the meeting, which she planned to spend fast asleep. Slumber had evaded her on the airplane and her eyes had already begun to droop on the taxi ride to the hotel. She needed sleep to stay alert, and so as soon as she closed the door to her room, she stripped off her grimy and wrinkled clothes and climbed into bed. Minutes later her cellular phone rang beside her bed, startling her from her nap.  
  
"What?" she asked grumpily once she answered it. "Wait. wait. say that again. Yeah. Yeah. She's where? WHAT! WHERE!?" 


	4. Interlude One

Interlude One  
  
Yuma, California had been for a long time a ghost town. Which was strange since it appeared on most large maps of the country, and received a good amount of traffic on the interstate that skirted the town on its way to Mexico. But other than an old, dilapidated strip mall and a few restaurants - including the requisite McDonalds for every town in the United States - it was pretty much a collection of houses next to an interstate. The main reason the town never grew beyond this was because it is found in the middle of a desert. Beyond the city limits the barren, sun dried land stretches out to the horizon in all directions, which is the only reason the town still exists. Various aviation related companies used the local airport and surrounding airspace to do flight testing, since if they crashed there was almost zero chance that they would hit anything. But if they had ever decided to move to another location the town would have moved with them, since there was nothing else to keep it running. No other truly viable source existed. And it was here, at the almost deserted airport to the west of the town that a lone figure rode up on a motorcycle, and stopped in front of the entrance.  
  
Stepping off his ride, the figure beat the dust off his scratched, oil stained knee length overcoat, to reveal underneath the brown coat of dirt the dark blue color of the coat. The figure groaned slightly once he saw the rips and tears the coat had accumulated since he had last dismounted over one hundred miles east in Santa Fe. He then removed his helmet, revealing a face almost as mud caked as his coat and drenched with sweat from the plus ninety degrees Farenheight noon temperatures. His hair, which had been pulled back in a short ponytail the last time he had stopped for a break, was now plastered against the back of his head by sweat and the padding of the helmet. He pulled a much used, almost blackened with dirt, handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his face reasonably clean before stepping though the sliding doors into the cool, dark air-conditioned terminal. The figure walked up to the single desk that was open and placed his helmet on the counter, startling the agent who had been reading a book.  
  
"Yes sir, how may I help you?" he asked, slightly taken aback by the state of the man in front of him. His face was slightly blue, as if he was suffering from very, very bad hypothermia or had been dunked in a vat of blue dye, and had a scar on his left cheek so large and unsightly that the surgery that created it had to have been done by a blind and raving drunk surgeon.  
  
"The name's Lipsky," the man replied, exhaustedly. "I need on the next flight out of here and someone who wants to buy a motorcycle from me." 


	5. A turn for the worse

Chapter 4 - A turn for the worse  
  
The buzz of the alarm woke Shego five hours later, at approximately nine o'clock in the evening. Without realizing it, her hand shot out from beneath the covers and slapped down on the sleep button, returning the room once more to silence. She repeated this motion over four times until finally, at twenty five past nine, she raised her head from the pillow and realized what the time was.  
  
Cursing herself for not getting enough sleep earlier, she climbed out of bed and grabbed some clothes from her bag before heading into the bathroom to take a quick shower. Minutes later she ran back out, still toweling off her hair, and threw her dirty clothes into her bag and then zipped it shut. Once she was sure that everything was packed and ready to go, she called downstairs for a taxi. She planned to keep the room, even though she would not stay in it for the next two days, just in case she ever needed it. And so, with her bag over her shoulder, she switched off the lights and closed the door to her room before heading downstairs.  
  
The lobby was almost completely free of people - since almost everyone who was staying the night in the hotel had already checked in - when Shego stepped off the elevator and walked swiftly to the large glass doors that exited into the street outside Paddington. Once outside in the chilly March evening, she looked around for her taxi - which of course had yet to arrive - before drawing her coat tightly around her and leaning against the stone wall to wait. After ten minutes and no taxi, she returned to the front desk of the hotel and asked the employee there if he had called the taxi for her. He assured her that the call had been made, and that it was probably rush hour traffic that was holding it up. He estimated it would only be another ten minutes at the latest until her ride arrived.  
  
But Shego couldn't wait ten minutes - she knew that the meeting closed to the outside world at ten o'clock on the dot. The warehouse in which the conference would be held was fitted with a series of timed locks; that would close the building to the outside world for forty-eight hours, at which time the discussions would be over and everyone would be more than ready to leave. It was a self contained world for the two days, with its own food, electricity and heating. Nothing was allowed in or out - be it electronic or paper or anything else - and no matter how much she pleaded, the security system could not be overridden. If she didn't make it to Slough she would miss the conference completely, something she didn't want to let happen - if she took the time to fly all the way to London she was damn well going to attend the meeting.  
  
And so she stepped out into the street and boldly held out her flattened hand out in front of her, signaling the black taxi ahead to stop. It did, with a screeching halt before the driver poked his head out the window and began to yell profanities at Shego; reprimanding her for her stupidity. She ignored him, and instead walked up to the vehicle, opened the back door and climbed inside.  
  
"Get me to Slough in ten minutes and I'll pay you ten thousand pounds," she promised, waving a thick billfold against the plastic partition that separated the driver's seat from the passenger section. Once he saw the scores of hundred pound notes she was holding in her hand, he transformed from a thirty-five year old taxi driver to a fledgling Paris-Dakar rally driver. His foot his the gas pedal so hard that Shego was thrown back into the seat from the resulting acceleration of the taxi, and they shot off down the busy street at speeds approaching seventy kilometers per hour. Shego quickly buckled her seat belt and hoped that the driver had done this before, since they had almost already had three head-on collisions and two fender benders, and they hadn't even reached the end of the block.  
  
A series of quick turns put them on a motorway leaving the city, and soon she could see the lights of aircraft approaching Heathrow, a sign that they were nearing Slough. Her driver must have played a lot of video games, since they had six minutes to spare and yet were within ten kilometers of their objective. Shego's mood began to brighten, knowing now that she would make it - just barely - to the meeting. But then everything began to go terribly wrong.  
  
Their exit was in site, and the driver was preparing to overtake one last car before swerving onto the off-ramp when the car on their left pulled out into the passing lane in front of them, going about thirty kilometers slower than the taxi. Her driver was luckily blessed with the power of quick reactions, and he slammed on the brakes while swerving the car into the left, slower moving lane. But everyone else wasn't so quick on the uptake, and the taxi was rammed from behind by a large truck carrying furniture to a store in Reading. The force of the impact knocked the steering wheel from his hands, and his foot was somehow shifted from the brake to the gas pedal. The result was the car accelerating down the motorway, half on the left lane and half on the exit lane - which ended in twenty meters.  
  
Shego watched with horror, unable to do anything, as the car slammed into the water filled tanks meant to stop cars, and then into the concrete barrier behind these. She was thrown to the Plexiglas partition and then in shock fell to the floor of the cab. There she lay, semi-conscious, and watched her own blood begin to spread out onto the beige colored carpet that lined the interior of the taxi. She tried to raise herself upright, and try to climb out of the now wrecked vehicle, but once she moved her leg, she felt a sharp, stinging pain climb up her thigh, and looked down to see that a section of the door had fallen on her lower body, pinning her down. She then tried to reach back and push the segment of metal aside, but she didn't have the strength to do anything except move her head. And soon, as her unseen wounds drained her body of blood, she began to even lose the ability to do that. Soon thereafter she slipped into total unconsciousness, at exactly ten o'clock.  
  
* * *  
  
At ten thirty that same evening, Kim and Ron were just finishing their meal at a small Chinese restaurant near Harrods. As they had told Hackney and Finch, they had spent the day sightseeing - visiting both the Tower of London and the National Science Museum. There they had spent hours looking at all the exhibits - with Kim having to finally drag Ron away from the children's section on flying, where he was making toddlers cry for not letting them play too. Once Ron's stomach began growling loud enough that people in the vicinity thought someone was starting a motorcycle, Kim decided it was a good time to get some dinner. She had heard of a place in Knightsbridge that served some of the best Chinese food in the city, and had decided to go there for dinner. Finding it was a bit difficult, since its interior was about eight meters wide, and split into two levels for more seating capacity.  
  
They were to say the least, famished, and spoke very little as they practically inhaled their meals. Finally, the plates were removed and Kim had a small cup of coffee before asking for the check. MI5 had promised to pick up the tab, and had given the pair a credit card to use for meals and anything else they felt they needed to buy. Of course, Ron had wanted to stop off at about six stores and pick himself up some new clothes, but Kim had insisted they would only use it when absolutely necessary. The waiter did not seem suspicious that a sixteen year old possessed a platinum credit card - a sign of the upscale clientele the establishment catered to - and took it without a word. Soon Kim and Ron were back on the street, with Kim trying to figure out where to catch a bus home from.  
  
"Com'on Kim! Let's go see a movie or something," Ron said to her as he sat on a bench at the bus stop. "The night is young and I'm nowhere near tired."  
  
"Oh yeah, then why did you almost fall into your fried rice at the table? I guess you were overcome by awakeness, huh?" she retorted.  
  
"It was a brief lapse, I felt a little nappish," Ron said, trying to blow it off. "But it's over now, so can we go?"  
  
"Uh. no," she said, feigning a moment of indecision.  
  
"Aw man, why not?" he griped.  
  
"Two reasons. Firstly, no matter what you think, you're tired. I know you're tired because I'm tired and you take a whole lot more naps then I do. Secondly, we're here on a mission and I guarantee that we'll have to get up at six tomorrow morning to look at some report or another," Kim explained.  
  
"Oh, all right," he gave in. But can we see one tomorrow?"  
  
"Maybe," she replied, trying to make it as ambiguous as possible in case he held her to her exact words the next day. She had learned that Ron had a very selective, but also very good memory - if she promised that they would go see a movie in a month, four weeks later he could still quote her exact words. Now, why he seemed unable to remember basic algebra equations, she had no idea. Could you help me now and find the bus home. I think we need to catch the line heading north-east."  
  
"No, no, no. It's the one over here, the 36B," he corrected her, pointing to something Kim couldn't make out in the low light.  
  
"Where?"  
  
"Here," Ron took her finger and pressed it against the map where the bus stopped.  
  
"Ron, that goes south," she replied wearily.  
  
"Really? I though the top was south."  
  
Kim sighed, and as she always did, asked Ron: "You want to me to try and figure it out?  
  
"That's probably best, yeah," he replied as he always did, and sat back down on the bench.  
  
"Okay," Kim said, mostly to herself than to her friend. "I think we have to take this one, the number eight; and then change at the next stop to a six- thirty-three. Can you remember that?"  
  
"No."  
  
"Thought so."  
  
Just then Kim heard the Kimmunicator beep from her pocket, so she pulled it out and turned it on to see Wade waiting patiently.  
  
"What up Wade?" she greeted him, "anything new on the London thing?  
  
"Actually yes," he replied, pulling over a pad of paper he'd written something down on, "something big just happened outside the city, near the airport.  
  
"Which one? There's five of them."  
  
"Heathrow. On the M4 motorway about five miles from a town called Slough there was a car accident. Somehow a taxi managed to ram into a concrete barrier where the lanes split," he reported. "The driver's dead, and the passenger just barely survived with a wound to the stomach and she's been identified by her papers as Carla Mitchell. She's in a pretty much stable condition in a hospital in downtown, but they want you to come speak with her."  
  
"Wade, I don't even know where Slough is, much less why I need to talk to some woman named Mitchell, I've never even -."  
  
"Kim, I got one of the doctors to send me her picture; it's Shego."  
  
"Shego!" Kim exclaimed, having expected something serious, but nothing to do with a villain - she had thought it would be a MI5 employee. "And she was in a car accident?"  
  
"Yeah," replied Wade. "They say she'll recover from her immediate injuries in about twelve days, but then she'll have to be in a wheelchair for the next month."  
  
"Immediate injuries?" asked Kim, unfamiliar with the term. "What are those?"  
  
"Cuts, bruises, things that the doctors can just stitch up and be done with - but she also had longer term injuries, like broken ribs, a broken wrist, her legs are all slashed and one of them is mildly fractured. She's in a pretty bad shape," Wade summarized.  
  
"And you want me to. what? Go over there and ask her right out why she's here?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Uhh, Wade? This is me, Kim. She hates me! She'll never talk to me, or anyone else, no matter how much pain she's in," she argued.  
  
"That's just it; they have her on a morphine drip," he countered. "She'll probably think it's all just a dream and if you ask the right questions, we'll get the answers we need,"  
  
"All right, Ron and I will catch a cab to the hospital," she said, but then added: "Though I'm gonna have to think about questioning Shego - I don't like the idea of taking advantage of her like that.  
  
"If you say so, just remember how much help this it will be if we question her," Wade reminded her, though kept his own feelings about the matter to himself. She guessed that Wade viewed this as the perfect chance to get into Shego's mind, and he probably wanted Kim to get there as quick as possible to find out as much as they could before she awoke.  
  
"I will, don't worry," Kim replied before the screen went blank. She then hailed down the next taxi and hopped in, Ron quickly following suit.  
  
"You heard what Wade said, right?" Kim asked him once she had told the driver where to go.  
  
"Yep," Ron replied.  
  
"So what do you think I should do?" she asked, provoking a moment of silence as he thought about her question.  
  
"Actually, I'm not sure," he admitted. "Either you ask her the questions and we end up knowing a lot more about why all the villains are here, or you don't and we're still at square one."  
  
"This shouldn't be so hard," Kim observed, wondering why she was hesitating about something so important.  
  
"I know," agreed Ron, "but for some reason I don't think we should do it."  
  
"Me too," Kim said; glad that Ron and her were somehow on the same level. She looked out the window at the apartments and shops flying past, pondering her predicament before saying: "It just seems so underhanded."  
  
"I would have just said it seemed wrong; and probably sick too, but that works," commented Ron, who's serious moment was over and he was back to his old self.  
  
"So do you think I should, or shouldn't question Shego?" she asked Ron, turning from the window to look at him.  
  
"I think it's up to you Kim," he told her, withholding judgment exactly as Wade had. "If you feel that you need to ask her the questions, you should do it. If it feels too wrong, just tell them you don't want to and who cares what anyone thinks."  
  
"Aww, that's so sweet. Thank you Ron," Kim hugged him, touched by his compassion and friendship. The taxi driver glanced back to see them in an embrace, and wondered if they'd begin getting a little hot and heavy like some of his other fares had done.  
  
"Hey, just doing the whole best friend thing," he replied sheepishly, slightly embarrassed at Kim's show of pleasant, platonic affection. The taxi began to slow, and Kim looked out the window to see the emergency ward entrance of the hospital approaching. The car pulled into a drop-off spot where Ron climbed out as Kim paid the fare before getting out and walking though the sliding doors into the reception area. There Finch waited next to a doctor and two members of the London Police. He turned to see them walking toward him and spoke to the policemen before they nodded in agreement and walked away.  
  
"Ms. Possible, good to see you. Your friend was right; he could get you here very quickly," Finch commented when they reached him.  
  
"Oh, Wade? Yeah, he's pretty much got me attached to some tracking device twenty-four seven," Kim observed sarcastically - though she knew it was probably more accurate than Wade let on. "So what do you need from me?  
  
"Well, you already know why you're here, correct?" asked Finch.  
  
"Yup, Wade clued me in before we caught a cab over here," replied Kim.  
  
"Very well; myself and Dr. Chung," Finch motioned to the Oriental man in the lab coat next to him, who nodded in greeting, "the resident anesthesiologist, believe that you will be the best one to speak to Shego. We have a list of quest-."  
  
"Mr. Finch, I'm really sorry to interrupt," Kim butted in "but I have to ask - why me?"  
  
"Dr. Chung?" Finch passed her query onto the man next to him. Dr. Chung was a slight man, about Kim's height with deep brown eyes and thick grey hair that, unlike Finch's, covered his entire head. His voice was accent-less, with certain words enunciated like a native of the city and others pronounced in the same voice as a tourist who had just arrived from Shanghai. It was a strange mixture.  
  
"Well Ms. Possible, you and Mr. Stoppable are the only two people we have in the area that the woman in question knows," Dr. Chung began, motioning to her and Ron while he spoke. "She will think she is asleep, in a dream perhaps, and if an unfamiliar voice begins to talk to her it will take much longer for her to begin giving out information. You however, are a familiar voice, and even though you are an enemy, the dreamlike state will be real enough that she will have no qualms about speaking with you."  
  
"Umm, could you repeat that in English please?" Ron asked, having lost Chung on the words 'in a dream perhaps'.  
  
"She'll talk to her worst enemy simply because she knows her voice," he replied.  
  
"Ahhh," Ron nodded his head in realization.  
  
"So Ms. Possible, we have a list of questions for you to ask Shego which shouldn't take more than two hours" Chung said, handing her a clipboard with a series of sheets of typed questions on them. There were at least four sides of single spaced type - a lot of questions. "The entire session will be recorded through speakers set up around the room, so you won't have to bother writing anything down. Just try and speak with her like you were best of friends, don't act nervous or angry at any time, since she will begin to become suspicious of your identity, and so probably will stop talking.  
  
"Okay, is there anything else I should know?" she asked.  
  
"Yes - remember that this woman just came out of surgery, and so is not only completely nude but also very badly wounded. While most of the major lacerations have been bandaged she is still pretty badly beat up; so try not to act surprised," the doctor recommended.  
  
"No problem, I've dealt with that before," she assured him.  
  
"If you say so. She's in room 6B and there are two armed guards in case anything happens. If you begin to feel uncomfortable, you may call them," Finch told her.  
  
"Thanks," Kim replied before following Dr. Chung and Finch down the drab hospital hallway past the emergency rooms and into the recovery ward. She had decided that, despite the feelings of dishonesty that were swirling around in her head, the best course of action would be to go along with the questioning. She knew that Shego wouldn't hesitate for a second if she got this chance with Kim, and so it seemed strangely justified. Yet Kim still felt uncomfortable, and she had no idea why.  
  
Shego's room was one of those kept for patients that were still very close to a critical condition and Kim could see from a distance the two burly policemen she had seen talking to Finch earlier standing by the door. After Finch nodded to them, the opened the door and allowed only Kim to enter, barring the rest from going in with their bodies.  
  
The first thing that hit Kim about the room was its smell - it reeked of pure alcohol and what she guessed might have been formaldehyde, but she wasn't sure. It had the odor of a chemical plant, not a hospital. Lying on the bed, attached to about six different monitors, lay Shego. Though having been warned, the sight of her broken, bruised body still shocked Kim. It wasn't her nakedness that astonished Kim, but the notion that this woman was - no matter how strange and unfamiliar she looked - Shego. Her entire abdomen was covered in a wrap of bandages from her chest to her hips, and Kim could see where her lower ribs had been broken in the crash where they were covered in a large white cast. Her ankles were also swathed in bandages, probably from broken glass or other debris from the taxi. Shego's entire left leg was covered in a lighter version of the cast on her chest, for what Kim guessed was the mild fracture Wade had mentioned. The wrist injury was only minor though, since she noted that Shego's hand had only been placed in a flesh colored brace. But still, Kim could tell that Shego would have difficulty moving fast for a very long time. 'She was might have even be crippled for life', she thought to herself.  
  
Shego was attached to a series of tubes, two running from an IV tree on which bags of clear fluid were hung, and two were attached to her abdomen, disappearing beneath her bandages around her navel. Kim noticed that her arms had been lightly strapped to the bed, possibly to keep her from picking at her wounds or more likely to keep her from waking up and trying to escape. Though escape in her condition was impossible at best, MI5 were taking no chances with someone as prominent in the criminal world as Shego. A nurse was watching all the monitors to make sure nothing untoward happened to her charge while she was on duty, and motioned for Kim to come sit in the chair beside her.  
  
"Now love," she began, and Kim immediately took a liking to her. Sitting in the lackluster room, surrounded by cold, cheerless machines; she was a ray of joy and comfort. This was something that Kim, sitting next to a woman who was barely alive, needed more than anything else. "I'll be sitting right here, watching the monitors to make sure we don't push her too far; all right? If I need you to stop, I'll just lay my hand you your arm we can then give her a few minutes to take a break."  
  
"No problem," Kim replied quietly, feeling uncomfortable with speaking too loud in the recovery room.  
  
"Don't worry dear, you'll be fine," the nurse assured her, sensing Kim's anxiety.  
  
"Thanks," she said before turning to Shego and beginning her questioning:  
  
"Shego? Shego? It's me, Kim. Do you remember me, do you remember Kim?"  
  
"Hiya princess," Shego replied softly, her voice sounding strangely serene and peaceful.  
  
"Shego, do you mind if I ask you some questions?" Kim asked her, trying to make her voice sound as friendly as possible to keep Shego from becoming suspicious of her reason for being there.  
  
"Sure," the other woman practically moaned, straining slightly against the cloth cuffs around her wrists, as if to get closer to Kim.  
  
"Okay then. Shego, when did you leave your home yesterday?"  
  
"Eleven thirty in the morning." Kim looked over to see Finch nod in affirmation from his position at the doorway, telling her that Shego had not suffered a severe concussion that would render the entire questioning process useless.  
  
"All right; and when did your plane land this morning in London?"  
  
"'Round eight."  
  
"And why are you here?"  
  
"A meeting?"  
  
"What kind of meeting?"  
  
"A big one."  
  
"Where is it?"  
  
"Somewhere."  
  
"Shego, do you know where it is?"  
  
"Yup."  
  
"Can you tell me where it is?"  
  
"Nope," Shego replied, sounding slightly childish as she toyed with Kim.  
  
"Do you remember why you were going to the meeting then?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Could you tell me why?"  
  
"Drakken said not to tell anyone. Not you, not your little friend, not anyone." she answered, giggling to her own private joke.  
  
"What's so funny Shego?"  
  
"I just thought of how it'd look to see me gut your friend, the one named Ron," she said, causing Kim to recoil slightly in shock. "Or maybe I could snap his neck, right before I do the same to you. Whaddaya think about that Kimmie? Or maybe I should go carpe jugulum style; and go for the throat - ever seen a person's throat cut Kim? Because I'll slit your friend's from end to end. Com'on Kim, speak up. I can't hear you Kim," Shego taunted her; visibly enjoying this by the way her body writhed slightly on the bed. "Tell me what you think about that."  
  
"I-I." Kim froze, unable to erase the sight of this woman snapping her best friend in half. She glanced down to read the next question, but for some reason her eyes would not focus on the page in front of her. She could see her right hand shaking slightly with rage as she now envisioned pulling the life-support systems from Shego's body and watching her die slowly, her body racked with pain once the morphine wore off. She stayed absolutely motionless for a moment, watching with fascination as Shego writhed and screamed on the bed beside her, as she clawed at her wounds, trying to make the pain stop. And then the fluids already pumped into her body through the IV tubes would run low, and her stomach would become a mass of reopened wounds beneath her skin. She would drown in her own blood, and Kim would be there to watch it all.  
  
But then she snapped out of her dream - and what later would be thought of as a nightmare -, and realized that she had just imagined murdering another human being. And that she had liked it. 'What's happening to me?' she asked herself, her body now shaking with fear. She'd never felt so strongly about killing someone until now, and it terrified her.  
  
"I can't do this," Kim said firmly before rising out of her seat and left before the nurse could pull her back. Outside, Finch was waiting, and his eyes widened with surprise as Kim walked out of the room after only five minutes.  
  
"What are you doing? You haven't already finished with the questions, have you?" he demanded, while keeping his voice low so as not to disturb any patients in the area, including Shego.  
  
"I'm not going to do this," she told him, her voice flat and emotionless.  
  
"What?" he hissed angrily, now that he realized that his one chance of finding the villains was about to be ruined.  
  
"I'm not going to sit there and listen to that," Kim said, pointing back to Shego who was now lying silently, apparently once more unconscious. "I can't listen to her saying those kinds of things about my friends."  
  
"Ms. Possible," Finch began, calming down slightly as he tried to reason with her. "You realize that she has no idea what she is saying - you cannot take offense at a single comment. She'll make many more before we're done; you simply have to ignore them and move on."  
  
"Mr. Finch, I never said that I was offended by what she said," Kim explained, "but just that I cannot listen to it. I almost ripped her in half when she started talking about Ron. If I sit there much longer she'll end up dead, and I'll have been the killer."  
  
Finch seemed to understand Kim's reasoning - she decided he had been faced with a similar situation during his lifetime - and nodded his head in agreement. He said nothing, accepting that trying to make her go on would simply hurt their chances of getting anything out of Shego, and moved out of her way. Kim walked over to where Ron sat, and slumped down beside him on the hard plastic chairs in the hallway. Though having been too far away from the conversation to have heard anything, he knew that asking her about why she had left the room was not a good idea. And Kim sat there mutely, the film of her best friend dying in front of her playing inside her mind. She tried not to look into his face, lest her expression reveal what she had heard in room 6B and luckily Ron understood that this was one of those times when words were useless.  
  
They sat there staring off into space until Finch walked up and informed them that Shego was once again asleep. He planned to recommence the questioning when she woke up the next morning, and asked if Kim would be willing to attend the first few sessions. She was, but wanted to return to their hotel for the remainder of the night to get a decent night's sleep before what she expected to be a long day. Finch wouldn't let here though, since he wanted her by Shego's side the moment she awoke in the morning so that they could begin the questioning immediately. They couldn't give her the chance to plan her responses and therefore lie to them and Kim's presence would be enough of an unexpected occurrence to keep her of thinking of trying to fictionalize her story. He promised to find them a room for the night - the nurses had a few rooms they used for rest breaks and hopefully none were being used that evening - but told them to stay seated until he got back. They agreed to wait and as he walked away down the corridor Ron decided the time for silence was over.  
  
"So how'd it go in there?" he asked softly, trying not to upset Kim.  
  
"Not so good," she replied. "Shego began talking about me and you, about what she wanted to do to us."  
  
"What'd she say?" said Ron, shifting around to keep his legs from falling asleep.  
  
"Don't ask," Kim replied firmly, and Ron nodded in understanding. He knew her well enough to know pressing the issue would get him nowhere.  
  
"Is that when you talked with Finch?" he asked.  
  
"Yep; we decided it was best to wait until the morning."  
  
"All right."  
  
And that was the end of the conversation. Kim's eyes began to droop, since she had been up for approximately twenty hours without a bit of rest, and soon she felt her entire body slide off the seat once her muscles relaxed. Fortunately Ron caught her before her head hit the floor, and by that time she was completely asleep, so he had little trouble in laying her on the chairs next to him and placing her head in his lap. She hummed slightly at something in her dreams as Ron pulled off his sweater and placed it behind his head as a makeshift pillow. He then pulled Kim's winter coat over her body, and placed his ski-jacket over his chest to keep him warm.  
  
Even in that cold, hard plastic chair Ron too was asleep within minutes, and had to be shaken gently to awake him once Finch returned. Ron carried Kim to her room, which regrettably had only one bed, and not a very big one at that. He decided to let Kim sleep in her clothes, since if not awkward questions would be asked the next morning, and instead lay her in the bed and covered her with the sheets. A blanket from a nearby closet was all he used to keep warm as he slumped into the large lounger beside the bed in which, like the plastic chair before it, he was soon dead to the world. 


	6. A Grim Proposition

Chapter 5 - A Grim Proposition  
  
A kilometer from the M4 motorway, on the outskirts of the small London suburb of West Drayton was the quiet, dreary street named Shen Way. No one knew why it had been given this extraordinary name, and why it had subsequently been kept; but it had and was soon forgotten to most. Sparsely lit by a few amber street-lights, it was littered with broken bottles and pieces of garbage. It had begun to drizzle and the water turned a murky grey as it flowed to the gutters, collecting dust and filth that had lain there since the last rainfall. Street sweepers never bothered to run their brushes down this street, knowing the only thing between this road and a dirt track was that it had sidewalks and streetlights - and even that was pushing it. The local gangs too, stayed away from Shen Way. They knew that there was nothing of value there, be it in the form of houses to break into or people to mug - no one lived here, and seldom was there a car along the short, dilapidated road.  
  
On one side were a row of rundown, abandoned houses, whose occupants had moved down the road to a new block of apartments near the railway station. Opposite these houses sat a large industrial complex that spanned the distance from the M4 to Shen Way. But like the structures it faced the complex had been silent and empty for the past decade; when its tenants moved to newer, more up to date facilities. Though the decrepit buildings had long since been vacated - and the 'For Sale' signs blown down by wintry snowstorms - the lights outside the entrances were still on and a single security guard was still employed to keep the vandals out of the warehouses.  
  
Yet one building had recently become occupied after being bought by a French firm that refurbished and resold these types of structures - or so the officials had said. They had sent over a delegation to work out the finer details of the deal with the complex's owners before sealing the deal and returning to Paris, where the firm was based. Within three days the funds were transferred to a British bank and a notary flew to Paris to have the ownership papers signed. The town council was promised that within a month a team of the firm's architects would arrive to begin the update process, but no such team ever arrived. Instead the firm had simply contracted out workers and emailed the plans to their foreman. Following the blueprints to the letter, they added some concrete walls and insulation; installed a decent air conditioning system and put in a few odd security cameras before locking it back up and mailing the keys to an address in Paris.  
  
Four months later, nothing had happened, and the building once again began accumulating dirt and graffiti when the guard fell asleep at his post. But then, a week before the night in question, a large truck with the name of the Parisian firm emblazoned on its side arrived at the building and men began unloading a series of large boxes. They were quickly moved inside the building and the truck was driven away to be replaced by another within half and hour. After a full day of this the traffic stopped as abruptly as it had started; and the men who had moved the boxes into the warehouse closed the door behind them and locked the door. They had not exited the building once since that day.  
  
And now, throughout the evening, taxis had been pulling up to the entrance to the complex - named Cato Industrial Complex after the town council member who had championed it's construction in the seventies - and letting off one or two passengers before driving back into downtown. Their passengers walked down the central road between the rusting, ramshackle warehouses and down a side street to Warehouse CT-1, the one owned by the French firm. It was in fact a puppet company owned by the World Evil Empire (also known as W.E.E.), whose leader, Gemini, had discovered the complex when he was visiting the area to pick up some new handguns for his henchmen. He had been chosen to host the villain's conference that year, and the warehouse seemed to him the perfect place to hold it. With a few million-odd dollars, he had turned an old coffee-bean storage facility into a heavily guarded, high-tech fortress. And now, as the guests began to arrive, he waited behind the five centimeter thick steel front door to greet them. Those that had already turned up killed time in the large central conference room by talking or snacking on the hors d'oeuvres that Gemini's men had set out.  
  
The conference room had been designed to be a fortress within a fortress. All four walls and the ceiling were made of meter thick concrete, followed by a layer of soundproofing foam insulation and another half meter of concrete. Placed along the outside wall were a series of electromagnetic pulse generators, which disrupted the signals emitted by listening devices. This meant that to these devices the room was simply a large area of complete silence, since nothing was ever transmitted from that area. The villains inside sat around bored stiff, and waited for the last two of their group to arrive.  
  
"Do we have any indication if she's even coming?" Lord Monte Fisk - better known as Monkey Fist - asked the man sitting next to him.  
  
"No, but I've worked with her and she's usually quite punctual," Sr. Senor Senior observed, checking his watch for the time.  
  
"Father, I was the one who worked with her," his son, Sr. Senor Junior commented, "you just sat around and di -."  
  
"Junior, what did we decide you had to do if you wanted to come with me to London with me?" Senior asked; a hint of annoyance noticeable in his voice.  
  
"That I should keep quiet unless called upon," Junior recited.  
  
"Very good son," his father commended him before turning back to Monkey Fist. "Teenagers; hopefully they'll learn some day.  
  
"Quite," was all he received as a reply - Monkey Fist had never contemplated having children.  
  
"So, has anyone seen her yet?" Adrena-Lynn asked, walking out of the gloom up to where they sat at a large conference table.  
  
"Who?"  
  
"Shego."  
  
"No, we were just asking that same question," Monkey Fist told her as she took a seat and sipped from a glass of Coke.  
  
"Hmm, duya know what time it is?" Duff Killigan asked from the opposite side of the table where he sat fingering a golf ball in his impatience. Every time he bounced or dropped it everyone cringed slightly, not knowing whether it had been pack with explosives or not.  
  
"She had two minutes until lockdown," Lynn told him as she checked her face in a compact mirror.  
  
"Ach, she's'a gonna have to run teh make it," Duff remarked.  
  
"I think is can be safe to say she won't be attending," said Monkey Fist.  
  
"What about Drakken? Isn't he coming too?" DNAmy asked Lord Fiske.  
  
"It seems unlikely," he replied, running his finger along the tip of his wine glass and listened to it whine in response.  
  
"Oh, sugarfoot! I kind of liked him - in a quirky, take-over-the-world kinda way," she admitted, taking the glass out of his reach.  
  
"What about us Amy?" he said; hurt that she had confessed to liking someone else.  
  
"Oh, don't you worry your pretty little monkey head Monty, you know I'll always love you," she assured him, leaning in for a kiss.  
  
"And I you, Amy." he replied, nuzzling against her as the other villains cringed in disgust.  
  
"Umm, could we stop with the public love here, it's making me nauseous," Sr. Senor Junior said, looking up from the issue of Rolling Stone he was reading.  
  
"Hear, hear. Hey they've go -. I mean; hey, d'ave got punche," Frugal Lucre said, remembering halfway though his sentence that he was supposed to speak with an accent.  
  
"Lucre, could you cut out the corny accent, we all know you don't talk like that," Lynn called from her seat, annoyed with the budget-bad-guy already.  
  
"I know, I know," Lucre said, shaking his head in embarrassment. "It's just that being the only low budget criminal here makes me apprehensive, like this guy I knew at Smart Mart who always."  
  
"Oh god, you've started him off on the people he works with at Smarty Mart again?" Prof. Dementor asked Lynn quietly from his seat next to her. "This is even worse that Drakken's stories of the fourth grade. At least those were funny - this is just plain depressing."  
  
"I know," she replied, "it's like -."  
  
Her words were cut short by the blaring of sirens, announcing the lockdown sequence's beginning. Soon loud thuds were heard all around the room, the sound of large metal barriers sliding in place behind all the exits to the building and locking in place. The timers were started, and above main entrance to the conference room a large digital clock - measuring hours, minutes and seconds - began to tick down from 48:00:00.  
  
"Alright everybody," Gemini said as he walked in through the large metal doors on one side of the room, "you know what that means. We're locked in until Thursday evening, so I suggest you get comfortable."  
  
"How long do we have to move in," Lucre asked excitedly from the back of the group, his duffel bag slung over his shoulder as he waited impatiently to get to his room.  
  
"Agent Gamma will read out the room assignments," Gemini replied, motioning to a chipper looking henchman who was definitely a rising star in W.E.E. "And you will have thirty minutes un-pack your bags before a light dinner and cocktails afterwards."  
  
"Always the gracious host," Sr. Senor Senior muttered from the back, both in compliment and contempt towards Gemini. He had wanted to host this year's conference, but lacked the experience in villainy to be deemed worthy of the honor.  
  
"Here are the room assignments," Agent Gamma called out a bit too loudly in his enthusiasm. "Mr.'s Senor Senior and Mr. Senor Junior have suites A and B. Ms. Amy and Lord Fiske in suite C. Mr. Lucre in suite D and Mr. Killigan in suite E. Mr. Gill is in tank F, Ms. Lynn in suite G and Professor Dementor in suite H. In suite I we have Gemini and in suites J and K we have Dr. Drakken and Ms. Shego respectively.  
  
"Strike those last two off the list," Gemini ordered him, knowing that there was no way either could gain access to the meeting now that the lockdown was in effect.  
  
"Yes sir. Did I miss anyone?" Gamma asked, looking around the room to see any raised hands. Just then a blast shook the building, causing glasses to fall off the table and shatter against the tiled floor from the shock. Reflexively everyone jumped up from their seats and glanced around for any sign of what had created the explosion. But upon seeing nothing, they simply stood there; unsure whether running away or staying put was safer. Their immobility cost them the few moments they could have used to escape from the series of armed men dressed in all black who entered the room from the door at the far end of the table. They quickly encircled the group, keeping their weapons trained on a specific, predetermined target as they waited motionless for some unknown command or signal. Everyone searched for an escape route, but there were simply too many men surrounding them.  
  
Gill looked around and tensed his leg muscles, preparing to leap upwards into the rafters where he could hide and fire slime at the intruders below. But he saw that every armed man near him carried either a net or a hand- held flame thrower, and knew that if he moved he would be burnt alive. Adrena-Lynn also planned to attack the black-clothed men, but she only knew basic martial arts, and knew she couldn't dodge that many machine gun bullets.  
  
The rest of the villains stood there in shock, and watched as a tall man dressed in a black pin-stripe suit and matching tie approached them. His hair was the same color as that of his suit, and slicked back against his skull as if it were a soldier's helmet. His eyes - brown and emotionless - looked straight ahead, focusing on empty space as he walked down the hall to the conference room. His face was drawn and gaunt, like that of an old man, though from his abundance of hair and wiry build, he could not have been more than forty-five years old. His lips were thin, tight and almost colorless, as if he were a cartoon, with a single pencil line for a mouth. Like a snake, his pink tongue whipped out every few seconds and ran briefly over his lower lip, keeping it constantly glistening with saliva. Either a nervous reaction or he simply had very dry lips, but no one dared to ask. His metal-toed leather shoes clicked against the floor as he approached the villains, who watched him warily like schoolchildren at the tiger pen in a zoo. They half expected him to leap at them and, with his bare hands, rip them to pieces. It was that look in his eyes - one which lacked any type of empathy or compassion - that made even the most hardened criminal in the room shiver. This was not a man who was simply evil because of what he did; he was evil in every aspect of his life - the embodiment of pure malevolence.  
  
Gemini was the first to speak, his voice burning with rage: "What is the meaning of this!"  
  
"Don't speak," the man replied, his voice cool and like his eyes, completely devoid of feeling. "Let me do the talking."  
  
He turned to the other villains and spread his black gloved hands in a sign of welcome: "Good evening, my name is Mr. Grim and I am now running this little get together. I suggest you pay attention to what I have to say, since daydreaming will be severely punished," he motioned to the armed men around him to illustrate what the punishment would be. I am here to offer you all a part in the greatest ever evil plot imagined. But to pull something this massive off, I will need all of your assistance and expertise in the villainous arts. So, in return for your services I offer you each twenty-five billion U.S. dollars - a very handsome compensation, I think."  
  
"I think you had better leave right now mister," DNAmy spoke up, upset by Grim's armed henchmen and his tone toward the villains. "None of us like being pushed around, especially by some amateur like you. We already have enough money, so just back off."  
  
"If yeh try anything, I'll slice yer head off ina second," Killigan growled in consent, gripping his driver almost hard enough to snap it in half. "Leave now."  
  
"Then I take it none of you wish to help me?" Grim asked, and received no answer, only glares of hatred. "Very well then, let me change the wording of my offer and see if you like it any better: You will help me or my guards will cut you down in a split-second. You all have fifteen seconds to sit down at the table - and if even one of you remains standing, you all die."  
  
It took the villains a few seconds to decide between death and helping Grim. And no matter how much they hated doing it, they all ended up seated in their chairs with Grim standing at the end of the table. He smiled widely; his eyes aglow with malice as he sat down at the head of the table and waved his hand to dismiss the guards. All but four, each toting an MP-5 submachine gun and a handgun - holstered on their hip -, they kept their weapons trained on the villains as their chief again began to speak:  
  
"Now, let me tell you my plan."  
  
A/N: Hope you all like the story, but unfortunately there won't be any postings for a while. I've got to go on a trip and internet access is limited, so I hope you have something else to read for a while. With a bit of luck there'll be a new posting in the first week of November if I can get off my lazy ass and write something. 


	7. Author's Note

Just letting you all know there will not be any new posts for a while on this story. This is because my computer was infected with a virus and I had to send it off to be repaired, so now I can't access all the DR files. Sorry to all you who have been waiting patiently, I'll try to remember to do frequent virus scans from now on.  
  
Fortunately I am writing a new story for the upcoming holiday season and I can promise a posting on Wednesday December 3rd. Hope that keeps everyone happy for a while.  
LN 


	8. A Fax from Paris

Chapter Six - A Fax from Paris  
  
Neither Kim nor Ron were awoken the next morning, since Shego too did not stir the entire day. Doctors worried she had slipped into a coma, but the resident neurologist assured her colleagues that the woman's brain waves were not those a comatose patient. And so, knowing that they would having nothing to do until Shego woke up, the security officials stationed outside the two teens' room allowed their charges to sleep in. Which was a good thing since their charges hadn't had more than five hours of sleep in the past fourty-eight.  
  
Not once did either of them stir, even with nurses constantly visiting the room to grab a towel or roll of gauze from a cabinet, though Ron wondered later how he managed to stay asleep in such an awkward position. At around four that afternoon, Kim's eyelids finally lifted as she drifted out of the land of Nod and back into reality. Having fallen asleep on the hard plastic seat of the hospital hallway, the fairly soft mattress and warm blanket came as a shock. She knew her hotel room was much better decorated than this drab, unimaginative chamber, and wondered how, and when, she'd been taken here. But when she saw Ron's sleeping form sprawled out on a large armchair with a blanket draped over his torso, her surprise faded. Kim guessed Finch had returned with a room after she'd fallen asleep, and Ron had carried her to the bed.  
  
She was already off the bed and rubbing the sleep from her eyes when she remembered she was in a reasonably public place, and so should check if she were properly dressed. Glancing down, she was relieved to see that she was still fully dressed - in one of her favorite outfits that was now crisscrossed in wrinkles, which she knew would be hell to remove. Though the idea of Ron undressing her wasn't the end of the world, it was still a little disturbing. They might be friends, but not the kind that often see each other naked.  
  
Putting those thoughts to the back of her mind, Kim went into the bathroom and splashed some water on her face to fully wake up. Wiping her face off, she heard the door to the hallway open, and someone enter their room.  
  
"Ms. Possible? Are you here?" she heard Hackney call out.  
  
"In the bathroom," she replied, hanging the towel up and stepping into the bedroom. "What's up?"  
  
"There's just been a bomb explosion in Paris," he pronounced gravely. "We think it has something to do with the sightings in the city."  
  
"Was anyone hurt?" Kim asked; concern evident in her voice.  
  
"We think so, but the reports are just coming in now," Hackney answered, looking over to see a snoring Ron turn over in his improvised bed and mumble something in his sleep.  
  
Knowing they needed to get moving, Kim pulled back the shades in front of the room's single window. Ron groaned in displeasure as the light streamed in from the clear, halcyon sky outside, and tried to cover his face with his blanket. Kim jerked the bedspread away from his body, hoping as she did that he too had kept his clothes on during the night, to keep him from falling back asleep. Fortunately - for both of them - he was still fully dressed, but a little ticked off at being so rudely awoken.  
  
"Kim!" he complained. "I was just getting to the good part!"  
  
"Sorry Ron," she apologized. "There's been an attack in Paris - they need us."  
  
"Who? The French?" Ron asked, still half asleep. "Les Franciais - wait, I think that's Spanish. Maybe it's -."  
  
"No, the British," Kim interrupted. "They think it might have something to do with the bad guys in London."  
  
"What kind of something?"  
  
"This kind," Hackney replied, and handed them a sheet of paper. "This was faxed to the British Embassy there moments after the attack. We can't trace the number, but analysts say there's a very strong connection between the letter and the bombing. They assure us it is authentic."  
  
"Where was the bombing?" Kim asked, not bothering to read the note until she had the facts straight from Hackney.  
  
"Paris, the Eiffel Tower," he answered. "Here, I'll show you," he turned around and grabbed the remote for the television suspended from the ceiling in a corner of the room. He turned it on, and flicked through the channels to the BBC, where he rested and cranked up the volume for the two teens to hear the newscaster speak:  
  
"We've just received reports of an explosion beneath the Eiffel Tower in Paris," the woman was saying, holding a hand to her ear as she listened in to the words coming in through the microphone. "Police officials are reporting twenty-two dead, and countless injured by the blast, which occurred at. three-forty-two, Greenwich Mean Time. Eyewitnesses are saying a backpack was seen lying on the steps to one of the Tower's entrances a few minutes before the bomb went off. We don't know yet if it was actually a terrorist attack - nothing conclusive has been said yet by rescue officials or the city's mayor. Nothing yet has been said concerning the structural integrity of the Tower, but there is will be a press conference in the next half hour at the police headquarters."  
  
Hackney turned the volume down once he was sure the woman had no more new information, and turned to Kim and Ron.  
  
"You'll want to look at the note again now," he advised, giving them a moment to re-examine the fax, which read as follows:  
  
THIS MESSAGE IS TO BE DELIVERED TO THE UNITED NATIONS SECRETARY GENERAL:  
  
WE CLAIM ALL RESPONSIBILITY FOT THE ATTACK THIS AFTERNOON, MARCH 13TH, 2003, IN PARIS. WE HAVE DONE THIS TO DEMONSTRATE THE POWER WE HAVE AT OUR FINGERTIPS - AND THAT WE WILL NOT HESITATE TO USE SAID POWER IF NECESSARY. I AND MY TEN OTHER ASSOCIATES HAVE ONLY ONE DEMAND: SEND A MESSAGE TO THE ADDRESS BELOW MAKING ASSURANCES THAT 25 METRIC TONNES OF GOLD BULLION WILL BE HANDED OVER TO US AT A TIME OF OUR CHOOSING.  
  
IF WE DO NOT RECEIVE A REPLY TO THIS MESSAGE BY 3:45 AM, ZULU TIME, WE WILL BE FORCED TO RELEASE CARRIERS OF THE SMALLPOX VIRUS IN 6 MAJOR CITIES AROUND THE WORLD. THESE CARRIERS ARE HIGHLY CONTAGIOUS, AND COMPLETELY INVISIBLE. IF NO MESSAGE ARRIVES, THEY WILL BE RELEASED.  
  
TIME IS SLIPPING AWAY MR. SECRETARY - MAKE USE OF THAT WHICH YOU STILL HAVE.  
  
MR. GRIM  
  
"How do you know it's connected with the sightings?" Kim asked, once she was done with the note.  
  
"The letter mentions ten associates. Save for Shego, there were ten other villains that had been spotted in London," Hackney responded.  
  
"You think they're behind this?" asked Kim doubtfully. "Seems a little unlike their style."  
  
"Yes," Hackney agreed. "Finch thought so too. But this 'Mr. Grim' might be the reason for this unorthodox operation. He could be the reason for the entire thing."  
  
"You mean he's masterminding the whole thing? And the other villains are listening to him?" Kim said, even more skeptical than before. Villains, in her experience, were some of the most independent people she knew. Listening to other's commands was not something they did often - correction: ever. "Not likely - these people don't listen to anyone except the voices in their heads."  
  
"That's what I said too. But Finch is back at the Yard working on a profile, trying to see how something like that could happen," Hackney explained his partner's absence.  
  
"Where's the address?" Kim moved on quickly to her next point of uncertainty about the letter.  
  
"We blanked it out for security reasons," the man replied, shrugging his shoulders to indicate it was someone higher up who'd ordered the deletion. "It's a numbered web address owned by a ghost company. Completely untraceable and risk-free for the criminals."  
  
"So what do we do?" the red haired adolescent said, knowing there was nothing else they could deduce from the letter until they knew more.  
  
"We have no idea at the moment - we're still waiting for orders to come from higher up," the MI5 man admitted.  
  
"What do you think's gonna happen?" Ron asked.  
  
"The Secretary General will probably accept the demand unless we can locate the source and neutralize it. If we can't, then the intelligence organizations will probably start a global search for the terrorists. Either we catch them, or hand over the gold," Hackney answered heavily.  
  
"You don't think this might be a bluff?" Kim cut in.  
  
"If it is - it's a very good one," Hackney responded.  
  
"But how do we know this group even has the disease? What if they really are bluffing?" Kim pressed on, hoping there was some way to prove the criminals really were faking it. The thought of a group of - at the least - mentally unstable individuals having a weapon that powerful was a scary one indeed.  
  
"We don't know. But we can't afford to take a chance - if they aren't, then we'll all be responsible for starting a pandemic," answered Hackney gravely.  
  
"Sounds like hot fun," Ron commented glumly.  
  
"Tell me something I don't know," Kim remarked in sympathy. "Can we get some breakfast, or lunch, or whatever sent up here?" she asked Hackney, who was leafing through some files from his briefcase.  
  
"I'll have some sent up," he replied, snapping the case shut and making for the door. "I've just got to go and check in with my colleague back at HQ. He'll be able to give us a better idea of out plan of action for the next few hours."  
  
"Cool," said Kim and he left the room. "You wanna take a shower or something?" she asked Ron, who smelt a little ripe after two days without having washed.  
  
"Yeah, thanks." Ron grabbed a change of clothes from his bag - which had been conveniently been brought over by an MI5 agent earlier that day - and headed to the bathroom. Kim heard a high pitched yawn coming from his bag, and looked over to see Rufus rising from a makeshift burrow in his owner's clothes.  
  
"Hey Rufus, you sleep alright?" she asked the naked mole rat - who was, like she had done earlier on, still rubbing the sleep from his eyes.  
  
He nodded in reply, and proceeded to hop out of bed and scurry around the room, searching for something. Finally he stopped, and cried out in despair: "Cheese!"  
  
Kim bent down and picked him up, raising him to her eye height. "Aww, you're hungry," she observed, her voice softening for the rodent like it would for a small child. "You want me to get you some cheese?"  
  
"Yup, yup. Cheese!" the pink rat replied happily. Kim set him down on the bed and glanced outside their room, looking for a likely location for cheese. Seeing none, she decided to ask Hackney when he returned.  
  
"I'll get it for you as soon as Mr. Hackney gets back," she promised, sitting down on the bed next to him. She heard Ron's - off tune - singing from the bathroom as she pulled out last month's Style magazine from his bag and began to page through it. She wondered why in God's name would Ron carry around such a blatantly, well, feminine magazine in his bag. Kim usually put him down for the macho, racecar, dirty joke kind of periodical. Then she reached the main section of that issue, and realized why Ron carried it around in his bag. It was a twenty-four page section on lingerie, and from the looks of the torn and bent pages, he'd looked at it more than a few times.  
  
Kim rolled her eyes, trying not to imagine why Ron kept the magazine with him. But then she remembered the nine hour flight they'd been on the day before, and how boring it had become trying to concentrate on a movie she'd already seen six times. Though she could see why he might have brought it along as something to keep him occupied with, it was still pretty wrong. 'Hey, at least it's not porn,' a voice in the back of her head reminded her. 'You don't even want to think about what he'd need that for.'  
  
"Hey Kim, you need the shower," Ron called out, opening the door to let a giant cloud of steam billow out into the bedroom.  
  
"Sure, be there in a second," she replied hurriedly, jamming the magazine back in her friend's backpack and zipping it shut. She grabbed a pair of black jeans and a long sleeved burgundy shirt from her bag and headed for the still steaming bathroom. Ron was still inside combing his hair, but as soon as Kim began taking off her socks, and prepared to pull of her shirt, he quickly left.  
  
She was completely undressed, and reaching for the shower's tap, when she heard voices outside. Hackney was talking to Ron, and he sounded anxious.  
  
"KP - we gotta go!" her friend called through the door. "Can I come in and get my watch?"  
  
"Wait a moment," she called back, grabbing her clean clothes and throwing them on as quickly as possible. Once she was fully dressed and had given her face a more thorough wash, she opened the door and allowed Ron to enter. Hackney was standing outside, looking restless as he leafed through a new sheet of papers, making notes on some of them.  
  
"What's the sitch?" she asked, sensing something was up.  
  
"We've got to go to number 10," he replied, a hint of excitement in his voice.  
  
"What's that?" Ron inquired as he exited the bathroom and picked up his backpack.  
  
"It's the Prime Minister's house," Kim told him, grabbing her own bag.  
  
"Why does he want to see us?" Ron asked, confused.  
  
"We've just received messages from sources around the world - we're sure it's this Grim person and the ten other villains," Hackney said, motioning for them to follow him into the corridor. "There've been rumors circulating for weeks about some kind of 'villain's conference' for weeks, but no one in MI5 thought it was a credible threat. But a Ukrainian man has just confirmed it - he worked with one of them, and heard it mentioned about two weeks ago. So the PM wants to speak with us; get our take on the situation, before he talks with the Secretary General about what to do."  
  
"Why just the Prime Minister?" said Kim as they walked down the hallway to the hospital's main entrance. "Isn't this a global decision - shouldn't the Secretary talk to other leaders too?"  
  
"He has - but since the villains are probably in Britain at the moment, it's mainly Britain's problem," Hackney explained. "We can request help from other countries, but it's up to us to deal with it."  
  
"Ahh," was all Kim said as they turned a corner and passed through a pair of sliding doors to the atrium of the hospital. Outside, Kim could see a government issue sedan waiting with a driver by the passenger's door to pick them up.  
  
"Ms. Possible!" a voice called out behind them as the trio reached the main doors. It was Dr. Chung.  
  
"Ms. Possible, wait!" he heaved, stopping in front of them after having run from his station near one of the main operating theaters to reach them.  
  
"What is it?" said Kim, waiting for the reply as he caught his breath.  
  
"It's Shego. She's awake, and she wants to talk to you."  
  
Author's Note: Sorry for the HUGE delay in updates, I'll try to do better from now on. 


	9. Questions and Answers

Chapter Seven - Questions and Answers  
  
Kim froze for a moment, unsure of what to say. Everything had changed so quickly since she awoke only minutes earlier, that she needed a moment of calm to plan her next move. While going to Number 10 with Hackney was tempting, she could sense it probably wasn't the best use of her time. Talking to Shego could probably tell them more about the situation than any intergovernmental reports could, especially since none of the governments even knew who they were dealing with yet. Shego, on the other hand, had firsthand experience with villains all day long and so could give them a pretty good idea as to what they were up against. But that was only if she felt like telling the truth, and if she was clearheaded enough to know what the truth was with all the painkillers she was on.  
  
"How long has she been up?" Kim finally asked the doctor. She knew from experience that the first few minutes after you wake up from anything involving the use of sedatives aren't the most lucid of moments.  
  
"About ten minutes - but she's already able to speak coherently," Chung replied. "She seems to have a pretty good idea of where she is and how she got here, so we can rule out any short-term amnesia. I and other doctors believe she is both ready and willing for questioning now."  
  
"Then we're staying," decided Kim. "You go on ahead without us Mr. Hackney. If you need our input on anything, just call Wade - he'll patch you through to the Kimmunicator."  
  
"Very well Ms. Possible," Hackney agreed without protest, knowing Shego's questioning was of the utmost importance. "Good luck."  
  
"You too," said Kim, and then turned back to Chung. "Lead on."  
  
They retraced their steps along the hallway to Shego's door, which was now blocked by a group of heavily armed men. The number of guards had tripled outside the door, now that the prisoner was awake. What was once two bored looking policemen with nightsticks and radios had now become a half dozen army soldiers toting assault rifles and equally unforgiving expressions. Two stood at either end of the corridor, carefully surveying all who passed while their comrades stood motionless in front of room 6B. All six watched each passer-by like he or she were packing an Uzi, and received more odd looks in the process than a nudist in Piccadilly Circus on a Saturday morning. But as Chung approached, the men nodded in acknowledgement and stepped aside to allow him to pass. The doctor motioned Kim and Ron inside, before turning to the soldiers:  
  
"Thanks boys," he said, nodding to them in appreciation. "Lock the door behind them."  
  
They did as they were told, leaving the Kim, Ron and a young nurse alone in the room. Soundproofed walls and doors meant that all Kim could hear was the methodical beeping and whirring of the various life-support machines sitting around the bed in the center of the room. To one side was a small window, which looked out of the dull chamber onto an equally gloomy courtyard and parking lot. The nurse sat at her station in front of it, filling out paperwork and glancing up every few seconds at the readouts on the various machines to make sure everything was as it should be. On the other side of the bed, a pair of chairs sat empty, where Kim suspected they were supposed to sit for the interrogation. Someone had set up a camera on a tripod to document the entire ordeal for later review, which sat at the end of the bed, aimed at Shego's face.  
  
The woman lay covered in a set of sheets for warmth, and probably for decency too since Kim guessed she was still naked underneath. If the doctors needed to get back in and resume surgery quickly, they probably didn't want to waste time trying to disrobe their patient. Sets of cables trailed out from underneath the white polyester bedspread to the computers and monitors arranged around the head of the bed, and Kim could see at least one IV tube attached to Shego's wrist. While lying flat on the bed, Shego's head and shoulders had been propped up just enough to give her an unobstructed view of the room. Without moving her head, she could see the nurse, camera and those questioning her all at once. Though very much awake and alive, Shego was still wounded badly, meaning she could do little more that talk and turn her head slightly to face Kim and Ron as they entered the room.  
  
"Hey Kimmie, having a nice time?" Shego croaked as they sat down, chuckling at her own joke. "I sure ain't."  
  
"Looks like it," Kim agreed, trying to keep the atmosphere as friendly as possible. If Shego felt threatened, she might decide to keep all her information about Grim to herself. "I heard you wanted to speak to me."  
  
"Yeah, I do."  
  
"About what?"  
  
"About what I need to do to get out of this dump," Shego answered, motioning with her head around the room.  
  
"Get better, and then spend the rest of your life in jail," Kim said coldly, remembering Shego's taunting words from the night before.  
  
"I don't think it's gonna work like that," the other woman predicted smugly.  
  
"And why not?" Kim asked, interested.  
  
"Because I know you need my help, and you'll do whatever it takes to get it," replied Shego cockily.  
  
"Don't think so, sorry," said Kim flatly.  
  
"Why not?"  
  
"Because after you see this, I think you'll feel very helpful all of a sudden," Kim said, and switched on the television.  
  
She let the BBC run for a few minutes, watching Shego's nonplussed expression at the sight of people being carried away from the bomb site in body bags. Then she pulled a copy of the fax out of her pocket and proceeded to read the entire thing out loud. This time she got a response, especially from the words 'Mr. Grim', at which point Shego's pupils flared to the size of dinner plates. Kim had no idea how she had known the fax would get a rise out of Shego, she had only done it as a test - to see how much the woman knew. Somehow it had worked though - something about Grim had tripped in Shego's mind, and all of a sudden she looked very willing to talk.  
  
"Feel like answering a few questions now?" Kim asked, now the smug one.  
  
"Not unless you guarantee two things," Shego demanded.  
  
"I'm not in a position to do that."  
  
"Then get someone who is - otherwise you get nothing, nadda. Zilch."  
  
"What are the guarantees?" inquired Kim, hoping they weren't too outrageous - they really did need Shego's help.  
  
"I thought you couldn't help me?" the woman mocked her.  
  
"Tell me what they are, and I'll think about it," promised Kim.  
  
"I need something better than that," Shego insisted.  
  
"Fine - if you help us, we'll guarantee whatever it is you want," Kim acquiesced.  
  
"Much better," pronounced Shego, a smile flickering across her face. "I want to promise that neither Drakken nor I will be arrested or harmed in any way after all this mess is over."  
  
"Sure - if you promise to help us," countered Kim. "Not feed us fake information like this Mr. Grim tells you to."  
  
"You think I'm working for that weirdo - you gotta be kidding me!" Shego exclaimed, insulted.  
  
"So you know this person then," Kim moved onto the questioning. "Who is he?"  
  
"It's best to start with a 'why he is here'." Shego replied. "Grim knew the annual villain's conference was going to be held here in London, and decided to crash the party. It's probably part of some plan to take over the world - so cliché."  
  
"Explain the villain's conference before you go any further," Kim told her. "And while you're at it, explain why you're here and not Drakken. Aren't you two a couple?"  
  
"Business associates? Yes. Couple? No," Shego replied coldly, and then proceeded to recount to the two teens everything that had happened over the last few days. Starting from the day Drakken disappeared, her story finished with the moment she lost consciousness the night before in the taxi.  
  
"So who's Grim?" Ron finally asked when Shego had finished.  
  
"Would a madman bent on world conquest or the total destruction of all of its inhabitants help any?" Shego asked in reply.  
  
"Not really, they're all like that," Kim answered dryly. "Where did he come from? What's his background?"  
  
"No one really knows," admitted Shego. "The first time anyone heard of him was in some back-alley bio-terror lab during the early eighties. I guess it was about '83 when anyone first heard about it - two college dropouts starting their own basement bomb factory somewhere in the United States. It was something completely unheard of, and a little crazy too. Before those two, no one had ever even thought of a group of civilians synthetically producing diseases. If you wanted a weapon like that, you usually contacted a friendly government and struck a deal for some old, unused batches."  
  
"It was that easy to get those kinds of weapons?" Kim asked doubtfully.  
  
"It still is," Shego countered. "Except nowadays you just go to one of these private labs and get a much better deal. Anyways, back to the story: Grim and his buddy began making their own diseases, which they proved to be surprisingly good at. Within six months they had a new strand of Ebola on the market; highly infectious, airborne, able to survive in non-tropical climates - heavy stuff. Everyone was trying to get a batch: terrorists, pharmaceutical companies. Even the US government was after it."  
  
"Why'd they buy it? Aren't they supposed to shut down those kinds of places?" Kim interrupted, confused.  
  
"Not if they haven't come up with that virus yet, no," replied Shego. "They hadn't developed that strand yet, so they bought a few batches through deep- cover agents of the CIA. Everything was peachy for a while, until they decided that the lab was getting too dangerous. Supposedly Grim had moved on to plans of attack for terrorist groups - writing up specific sets of instructions as to how to use his weapons to the best of their abilities. He had game plans for total world domination, killing off entire cities, everything. And he was writing more each day. Though the CIA was perfectly fine with him making these kinds of mass casualty weapons, they weren't fine with him telling people how to use them."  
  
"So they shut the place down?" asked Ron, leaning in as the story got good.  
  
"Brilliant deduction," sneered Shego before continuing. "Yeah, they shut it down, and forced Grim to flee the country. He moved to the Soviet Union, I think, though was followed there by sixteen different assassins. He killed all of them, and traced their last few payments to six different governments around the world. Countries, organizations, people he had done business with had turned on him the moment things started to go sour."  
  
"I take it he was pretty tweaked," Kim guessed.  
  
"Pretty tweaked is one of the biggest understatements I've heard in a while," Shego remarked. "Grim was now a wanted man - wanted and penniless. The CIA had frozen all of his assets when they shut down the lab, and put a huge price on his head. According to rumors, if you brought him in dead they would give you five million dollars, no questions asked. So Grim needed a government to protect him, to keep him safe from the United States' bloodhounds. And that was why he ended up in the Soviet Union, where he restarted the weapons lab."  
  
"In the USSR? Isn't that a dumb idea?" Ron asked, remembering from History class that the Soviets weren't very tolerant of terrorists.  
  
"Not if the government was funding the entire thing," Shego replied, getting a little fed up with the constant interruptions. "The Politburo saw him as a valuable asset to their biological weapons department, mostly because - having been trained in the West - he was years ahead of them research-wise. So they agreed to fund his lab as long as he taught their scientists all he knew. Which he did, and quite well too since when the Soviet Union broke up every country surrounding it gained about five hundred well trained bio-weapons experts. Grim, on the other hand, stayed in Russia for the next few years, and made millions off new diseases - including a version of AIDS that didn't bother to hibernate for ten years before tearing your body to pieces. Once again he was living the high life - a banker I once met on a mission for Drakken said he had over fifty million dollars in bank accounts around the world. No one could touch him - he had enough guards to take over a small European country if he felt like it - and in Russia he was treated like a king. But then one day he just disappeared - never been seen since."  
  
"Yeah right," Kim said dubiously. "No one can just 'disappear' into thin air."  
  
"He did," Shego retorted. "Some in the business say he was murdered, others say he just died, some even think he committed suicide."  
  
"What do you think?" inquired Kim.  
  
"Me? I think he just disappeared - if he died, we would've heard about it."  
  
"Why? He lived in Russia for Christ's sake - someone could just kill him and dump him in the forest," Ron pointed out. "The police would find him, label him an unknown person and stick him in a graveyard somewhere."  
  
"Not really, no," Shego corrected him. "You see, Grim lost an arm in a fight with one of the assassins and then had it a group of West German engineers build him a new one. Built completely out of titanium, strong enough to break through stone walls and throw men the length of a football field."  
  
"So, not just your normal prosthetic then?" Ron asked.  
  
"Whadda you think?" she replied sarcastically.  
  
"And he hasn't been seen since?" Kim confirmed.  
  
"Not since '96, when he disappeared, no."  
  
"Do you think it's him?" Kim asked. "Do you think he's the guy who wrote this fax?"  
  
"Probably - he was always one for big plots," Shego said. Kim could sense a change in her voice, could hear tones softening as she took a brief stroll down memory lane.  
  
"You knew him?"  
  
"No," Shego denied sharply, knowing what the teenager was getting at. "There was never anything between us - I only heard about him from Drakken. He told me about Grim one time when we were stuck in his lair during a hurricane - the power went out, and it was either stories from his early childhood or Grim. Take a wild guess which one I chose."  
  
"How dangerous do you think Grim is?" Ron butted in on her reminiscing.  
  
"Much worse than anything you two have gone up against," Shego replied heavily. "He's ruthless, intelligent and completely committed to his goals. The man won't hesitate for a second if he's forced to release the virus - he'd rather kill everyone on the planet than fail."  
  
"So, how do we stop him?" said Kim, fearing Shego might not know the answer.  
  
"You've got to talk to someone who's met him - someone who knows how he works."  
  
"How about Drakken? You make him sound like he knows a lot about this guy," Ron observed.  
  
"Knows a lot about him - yes. Met him, worked with him - no way," Shego shut the idea down. "Drakken is way too much of an amateur for Grim to bother with him."  
  
"I take it there's been some tension between you two for some time," Kim observed when Shego practically spat her partner's name.  
  
"You've seen us together - he's tripping over his own feet half the time!" Shego exclaimed, coughing furiously afterwards until the nurse let her sip some water from a straw.  
  
"Thanks," she said to the woman, who gave Kim a very hard stare.  
  
"Try not to wear her out too much - she's still in recovery," the nurse said condescendingly.  
  
"Sorry," Kim mumbled an apology before returning to Shego. "Do you have any idea where Drakken is?"  
  
"If I did - why would I bother with the bounty hunters?"  
  
"Good point." There was a brief pause as Kim tried to remember what her next question was. It was something to do with what Shego had said about Grim's early years - something about the first bio-terror lab. Finally it came to her: "You said Drakken told you about Grim, right?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"But he never met him before?"  
  
"Not that I know of - I think Drakken was still in college when Grim and his friend started the lab."  
  
"When was that, in 83', right?" Kim pressed on, hoping her hunch was correct.  
  
"Yeah, in late spring I think," Shego replied warily, unsure of where the adolescent was going with this one.  
  
"About the same time as the Science Department mixer my dad went to," Kim observed more to herself than anyone in the room.  
  
"What's that got to do with Grim?" Ron asked, as confused as Shego was about what Kim was thinking.  
  
"My dad said Drakken - who was then still Drew Lipsky - dropped out of college around about the time the Science Department held a big end-of-year party. He would have been fresh out of college and - knowing Drakken - looking for a way to get back at the people who kicked him out."  
  
"And what better way then to make weapons of mass destruction," Shego continued, finally understanding what Kim was getting at.  
  
"You think he was Grim's partner?" Ron asked, trying to catch up with the two women's train of thought.  
  
"Grim was a college dropout too - they probably found a lot in common," Shego theorized.  
  
"You think Drakken would be willing to tell us everything he knew about Grim?" Kim queried, hoping the answer was yes.  
  
"I remember he didn't speak of him very fondly," Shego responded. "He'd probably be glad to help if it meant putting Grim in a tough spot - these villains love to screw each other over."  
  
"Only problem is we've got to find him," Ron reminded them gloomily.  
  
"Shouldn't be too hard if we get the Brits to help us with finding him," Shego pointed out. "If they can get the world's intelligence services looking for him 24/7, it shouldn't take too long to find him. A blue- skinned man kinda stands out in a crowd."  
  
"Good point," Ron conceded. "But that's only if the Brits think it's worth it."  
  
"There's only one way to find out." Kim whipped out her Kimmunicator and connected to Wade. Unlike the other time she'd made an emergency call from Europe, he wasn't fast asleep when the computer started beeping on his desk.  
  
"Hey Kim - you guys hear about the bomb in Paris?" he asked when her face appeared on the screen.  
  
"Yeah, we're trying to figure out who did it now," she answered quickly. "Has anyone filled you in on the message the British embassy received?"  
  
"Finch faxed me a copy," he said, waving the paper with one hand. "You guys know who this Grim is?"  
  
"We've been talking with Shego - and she's given us a general idea of the guy," said Kim.  
  
"Shego? Helping you!" Wade exclaimed loud enough for the woman in question to hear.  
  
"Yeah techno-dork," she retorted. "You'll need all the help you can get with this one."  
  
"KP, I'm not so sure about this," he confided in her. "Are we sure she's trustworthy enough?"  
  
"If not there's nothing we can do about it," Kim said; looking hard at Shego, as if to read her mind. "Could you put me through to either Finch or Hackney?"  
  
"Sure thing." He tapped a few keys and in moments Kim heard the long beeps of a phone ringing.  
  
"Hello?" Hackney's said - his voice represented on the screen as a vertically oscillating line. The higher the amplitude of each wave, the higher the volume of his voice. It looked like a cross between a heart-rate monitor and a kid on speed playing jump rope.  
  
"Mr. Hackney - it's Kim Possible."  
  
"Ah Ms. Possible, so good to hear from you. We were just about to give you a ring," he told her. "The Prime Minister has agreed to take on the task of finding this 'Grim' person before he strikes again, and the Secretary General will send a reply to the fax within the next few hours."  
  
"Sounds great," Kim said quickly, wanting to get onto the purpose of her call. "Mr. Hackney - I've been talking to Shego, and we think we have an idea on how to deal with Grim."  
  
"What's that?"  
  
"Dr Drakken - her partner - probably worked with Grim in a bio-terror lab in the eighties. He might know something about how this man works, and what we can do to stop him," she explained.  
  
"Splendid."  
  
"Yeah - but there's a catch," Kim added. "Drakken left Shego without a word three days ago. Supposedly he's having a midlife crisis or something."  
  
"Well that's a bit inconvenient," the man on the other end of the line remarked, a typically upbeat British state of mind.  
  
"Just a little. Anyway, I was wondering if you could convince the Prime Minister to devote some of your intelligence services to finding Drakken, since he probably knows more than anyone else in the world about Grim. Or at least more than anyone else who's prepared to talk to a government. And I think that if we try to stop this completely unprepared, we'll all end up dead," Kim said, voicing her greatest fear about the operation.  
  
"I totally agree. Let me speak to the PM for a moment then," Hackney said, and the line went silent. Kim mouthed the words 'he's checking it out' to Ron, who was waiting with an expectant look plastered across his face.  
  
"Ms. Possible? This is the Prime Minister," someone finally said, their voice deep, rich and imbued with an air of regality.  
  
"Oh, hello sir," Kim replied, a little surprised that the head of Britain's government was taking the time to talk to her.  
  
"I've spoken with Mr. Hackney, and we agree that finding Dr. Drakken will be the most useful course of action to take at this time," the man informed her.  
  
"Thank you sir," Kim said graciously, glad that they'd been given the go- ahead.  
  
"Britain and other governments around the world are devoting our entire intelligence networks to finding this man. We promise you useful results by noon tomorrow," the Prime Minister continued, evidently having forgotten that he was speaking to a teenager.  
  
"Glad to hear it sir," said teenager told him, not knowing what else to say.  
  
"Oh - and thanks for helping me with that little anniversary problem - the missus loved it," the PM said, dropping the stately air and volume in his voice.  
  
"Don't worry sir - it was so not the drama," Kim replied in her usual offhanded fashion. "I was just glad we found a shop still open at midnight on Christmas Eve."  
  
"As am I," the man agreed. The line was quiet for a moment as one of his advisors spoke to him quickly. "I'm terribly sorry - but I've got to go," the PM said when he came back on. "We'll keep in touch."  
  
"Call me or beep me," was the last thing Kim said to him before the line went dead. Wade had also disconnected, so Kim switched off the mini- computer and placed it back in her cargo pants pocket.  
  
"What was all that about an anniversary problem?" Ron said.  
  
"It happened last Christmas," Kim answered. "You weren't there, remember."  
  
"Oh yeah - I was on the North Pole," Ron shuddered, remembering spending Christmas Eve with Dr. Drakken in subzero temperatures with only his mission gear on. "So what happened?"  
  
"He just needed some help with a wedding anniversary for him and his wife," Kim explained. "I just gave him some advice on flowers and chocolate. The man was completely clueless when it came to buying things for his wife. Great leader of his country, completely useless at buying presents."  
  
"And you did all this while I almost froze to death up in the not-so winter wonderland?" Ron asked, getting a little riled.  
  
"Don't worry Ron, I was thinking about you the entire time," Kim assured him, remembering how awful it was not knowing where her best friend was. And still she had to help the Prime Minister buy red roses. Those were times when the whole 'saving the world' deal didn't look so hot.  
  
"So what do we do now?" Shego rasped from her bed before taking another sip of water.  
  
"We wait," Kim said sighing heavily and reclining back into her chair. "Wait until someone finds out where Drakken is. Until then, there's nothing else anyone can do."  
  
"We wait?" Shego asked incredulously. "I thought you two flitted around the world stopping criminals and solving mysteries. It always sounded like mission after mission, no breaks. No one ever mentioned anything about waiting."  
  
"Yeah - the teen hero life ain't all action and adventure," Kim agreed.  
  
"Thank god," Ron observed. 


	10. Interlude Two

Interlude Two  
  
The United Airlines Boeing 777-200 touched down at Singapore Changi International Airport almost exactly on-time at 11:56 PM, local time. After using a mile of runway to decelerate, it turned onto an exit taxiway and sedately turned back toward the terminal area. Few people talked inside the jet, most having just woken up from not near enough sleep. Most busied themselves repacking their carry-on luggage under the low cabin lights, listening with half an ear to the flight attendant's goodbye message:  
  
"Ladies and gentlemen," the attendant began, standing up in the galley area between the First and Business Class cabins with the PA system's handset up against her cheek. "We would like to be the first to welcome you to Singapore, where the local time is approximately eleven fifty-seven p.m. We would like to request that everyone remains seated with their seatbelts securely fastened until the aircraft has come to a complete stop at the gate and the seatbelt sign has been turned off. We would like to warn you that items placed in the overhead bins may have shifted during the flight, and so caution should be used when opening these bins. Finally, the entire flight crew of this United Airlines flight eight-o-one and I would like to wish you a pleasant stay in Singapore or a safe journey onwards to your final destination. We hope you have had a pleasant flight with us, and hope that if your travel plans call for air travel again, you will think of us at United Airlines. Once again, we are now in Singapore, local time is eleven fifty-eight p.m."  
  
The woman then placed the brown plastic handset back in its cradle on the wall and turned to help her fellow flight attendants clear up the galley. As she stacked wineglasses in their padded carrying case, one of her colleagues called to her from across the galley:  
  
"Mary," the man called over to her as he opened up the coat closet and pulled out his blazer, "did you get all the dishes from First?"  
  
The woman paused for a second, trying to remember if she'd cleaned up all the glasses and plates from the First Class cabin. It was almost completely empty, and she had been so busy clearing up all the empty wineglasses and coffee mugs from Business Class cabin she must have forgotten. Not that it was difficult to, with only one man sitting up in seat 2A, sleeping most of the time and asking for nothing more than a Coke every once in a while.  
  
"No, I don't think I did," she replied, nodding in thanks to her friend before turning and heading forward to the First Class section of the aircraft.  
  
Dimly lit during the entire flight to allow its occupants to sleep soundly, the First Class cabin was filled with only ten seats with only one occupied - a gentleman sitting in seat 2A. He stared blankly out the window as the woman neared him, either because he hadn't noticed her or just hadn't bothered to look up. For almost the entire flight he'd been like that, staring darkly out the window or at the newspaper he never bothered to read. He hardly spoke, even when Mary had tried to strike up a conversation during their infrequent encounters. She hoped she didn't come across as desperate for conversation; it was simply that he looked lonely, and she had thought a little chat might do him some good. But every one of his answers to her questions had been short and uninterested, so she left him alone.  
  
"Can I take those for you, sir?" she asked the man, seeing his tray table still laden with four glasses and a half-eaten club sandwich. The man nodded slowly, not once turning his head away from the window as she removed the dirty dishes from his table. "Is there anything else I can get for you?"  
  
"No, thank you," the man answered quietly, his voice flat and indifferent. The flight attendant nodded and walked back to the galley, a little disturbed by the man's stoicism. Not that she really wanted to talk to him - his appearance had disturbed her from the moment he walked on the plane in Tokyo.  
  
Sporting a long, blue robe that hung down to below his knees, she had at first thought he was some kind of monk or priest. But the garment seemed too bleak and stiff - with its rigid black collar and large, polished leather belt around the waist - for any religious group to use. His face was also upsetting, with a strange blue tinge to his skin and a hideous scar running along his left cheek. With his blue-black hair pulled back into a slick, glistening ponytail he looked more like a mental asylum escapee than anything else. But now the flight was over, and Mary no longer had to worry about him.  
  
Once the aircraft was parked at the gate with its main exits open and the jet-bridges connected, passengers were slowly allowed to disembark. The blue-skinned man was one of the first off, stepping off of the airliner without a single word of thanks to the flight crew. His step brisk, the man was soon entering the cavernous immigration hall, devoid of passengers at such a late hour. The uniformed Customs officer found nothing wrong with the man's Canadian passport while stifling the urge to ask about his unusual skin tone. Instead, he waved blue-skinned Peter Smith past his booth, and into the baggage claim area. 'Peter Smith' picked up no baggage, but instead walked past the rows of black conveyor belts and through the second Customs checkpoint.  
  
Outside, in the brightly lit Arrivals hall, he walked past the throngs of people waiting for friends or family to where a small, well-dressed native stood holding a sign. Taped onto the board was a sheet of paper with the words 'Mr. Lipsquie' printed in large, bold lettering.  
  
"You're from the hotel?" the blue-skinned man asked, not bothering to correct the man's misspelling of his name.  
  
"Yes - and you're Mr. Lispie?" the other man replied in heavily-accented English. Apparently he needed to work a little on his language skills.  
  
The blue-skinned man smiled slightly, his scar contorting as his cheek rose, and nodded in affirmation: "Yes, I'm Mr. Lispie."  
  
The hotel employee nodded in understanding, and led Mr. Lispie to the hotel van parked outside. After eight hours of sitting in a pressurized steel tube the heavy, humid night air of Singapore was a welcome change for Mr. Lispie. He took a few deep breaths of the sweetly moist breeze sweeping along the terminal building's edge before following the man to his ride.  
  
"Did you have nice flight, sir?" the small man asked him as he opened the door on the passenger's side.  
  
"It was decent, yes," Lispie replied, pausing a moment as he thought about something. "Though for some reason this dammed flight attendant kept trying to strike up a conversation." He paused again; "I think she was coming onto me." 


	11. Supersonic Courier

Chapter Eight – Supersonic Courier  
  
"Lucre, have we received anything yet?"  
  
"No sir, nothing yet," Frugal Lucre answered as he had done fifteen times before in the past two hours.  
  
"Very well," Grim said, standing behind him in the dimly lit central computer room. The Smarty Mart employee was sitting at one of ten computer terminals set up around the semicircular room. Behind Grim was a large, blast proof metal door and beyond that, a long corridor to the conference room. Gemini had planned to use the warehouse as an interim base of operations after the conference was over while a new one was constructed for him in the Atlantic Ocean. So, the room had been fitted with some of the newest, most powerful computers available to the public. Networked into each other's systems, they had the computing power of something that usually cost three million dollars and was only available to certain governments.  
  
Underneath the half-light provided by a few halogen bulbs set in the ceiling, Lucre and Grim's team of ciphers had managed to break through the building's lockdown system and regain use of the fiber optic line Gemini had installed weeks earlier. Now, with the fastest internet connection known to man and a computer powerful enough to crack almost any website or network, the building no longer seemed so isolated from the world. If he wished, Grim could clean out almost any bank in the world. But that was not part of the plan, and he was determined to stick to the plan. He knew that those stupid enough to try and pull something off in the heat of the moment paid for their hotheadedness with their lives.  
  
After spending a night and half the next day setting up the warehouse as his headquarters, Grim had finally been ready to set his plans into motion. After explaining his proposal to the other villains, they had all been extremely willing to help. Possibly it was because he was offering them billions of dollars in repayment for their services, but more likely it was because they valued their lives more than their dignity. Grim made sure each villain had at least one of his own men following them around every second of the day, their weapons loaded and the safeties off. As long as they feared him, they would do as they were told. That was all that mattered to him since as long as they obeyed him, the plan was flawless.  
  
As he stood rigidly behind Lucre, Grim heard the sound of approaching footsteps but kept himself from turning around. Constantly testing himself, he tried to identify them simply by the sounds they made as they neared the computer room. The first set of footsteps were almost too easy to put a face to; their soft fall and loud squelch as they rose from the tiled floor labeled them as those of an amphibian. Gill, without a doubt.  
  
The second pair were a little more of a challenge; hard soles clicking against the floor meant they were hard leather – he guessed, not knowing exactly what kind of material. Short time between footfalls meant short legs, which meant a small body. Or unusually short legs, which Grim knew none of the people in the building had, and so ruled that out as a possibility. Narrowing the search down to those he knew to be short, he ruled out any member of his assault team, since they all wore gumshoes to keep their movements silent. Other than that, there was DNAmy, Senor Senor Senior, and Professor Dementor. The first was ruled out since Grim recalled her shoes as being moccasins. The second, being old, possessed a slower, less sure stride, so his name was also dropped from the list. So, by process of elimination, Grim labeled the second set of footsteps as those of Professor Dementor. The entire process took him less than two seconds.  
  
"Professor Dementor, report," he ordered without turning away from Lucre's screen.  
  
"The building is secure," Dementor responded, unimpressed by Grim's game. "We've sealed up the hole you made in the south wall and rewired the motion sensors around it."  
  
"What about electronic surveillance – are we vulnerable?"  
  
"Not enough to be a threat. Even the best in listening devices will be able to pick up only signals within five meters of the hole."  
  
"Make it two meters, and I'll be satisfied," Grim ordered, turning to face both the other villains standing a foot from him.  
  
"You can't stop everything from getting through," wheezed Gill, his body starved of moisture after being above water for so long. A webbed hand held onto the back of a chair for support as he tried to catch his breath while searching the room for a bottle of water. Grim's expression darkened, his brow furrowing and his mouth tightening to a thin line.  
  
"Listen, fish," he growled, leaning into Gill. "I would prefer it if you would just follow my orders – questioning them wastes so much time. Do you even know how to stop an electronic signal from entering a room?"  
  
"No," Gill murmured, staring at his webbed feet and wishing he had kept his mouth shut.  
  
"Then I suggest you leave all of the brainwork to the professor and go jump in a fishbowl somewhere," Grim advised, turning back to Dementor.  
  
"Continue with your report," he said as Gill left the room, sulking.  
  
Just as the professor began to give a full status report on the building's security systems, Lucre whirled around from his terminal.  
  
"We've got a reply!"  
  
* * *  
  
After a long afternoon and evening of doing very little, Kim and Ron hit the sack at close to midnight. Staying up late watching movies in the nurse's lounge and making quick trips down to the vending machines for 'snackage' it almost felt like they were at home, not out trying to stop some madman from decimating the world's population.  
  
The next morning, this relaxed air disappeared when Kim was woken at close to seven in the morning by Wade. Finch had just sent him Grim's reply to the Secretary General's letter. It was brief, giving the time, date and location where the gold should be for Grim's men to pick it up. A standard ultimatum letter, one Kim had read a thousand times before on other missions. For some reason though, she felt it was different this time. Grim seemed more professional to her than other criminals she'd dealt with. From what Shego had told them, it sounded like he would spend less time gloating and more time killing. She had an irking feeling that facing any combination of her other foes would be effortless compared to confronting this man. This thought hung heavy in her mind as she and Ron sat down in the cafeteria with their breakfast.  
  
"Does cafeteria lady outsource to this place, or what?" he asked her as he picked at his scrambled eggs.  
  
"No, it's just a cafeteria Ron. Every one of them is like this," she replied, eyeing the sickly yellow hue of the gelatinous mass on his plate with suspicion.  
  
"But I mean, how can you screw up scrambled eggs?" he said, reaching for the salt shaker.  
  
"Ron, what's on that plate has probably never been within five feet of an egg," she pointed out as he tried a bite of it.  
  
"How do you know that?" said Ron after he had downed an entire cup of orange juice to wash the taste out.  
  
"Because you're having to eat it with a spoon."  
  
Good point. So, run through this letter we got from Grim again," he said, taking a bite out of a piece of toast.  
  
"Ron, you were in the room when Wade read it out," she reminded him.  
  
"I'm a deep sleeper – didn't hear a word of it."  
  
"Whatever," she sighed, not bothering to argue with Ron after the time he'd fallen asleep on a mission – while he'd been tied up. "The letter says that he wants the gold in three days, by 10 AM. He says that by then, it has to be sitting in an airplane sitting on the runway at some airport in Switzerland. It's gotta be fully fueled and capable of flying over 6,000 nautical miles with the gold in its cargo hold."  
  
"How much gold?"  
  
"About 750 tonnes of gold bullion. That's about 9 billion dollars at the current rates."  
  
Ron jaw dropped low to a point where Kim could park an SUV in his mouth. "And he thinks that the governments will just hand over this much gold and not try to track the plane?" he asked incredulously once he regained control over his facial muscles.  
  
"That or he's got a plan to hide it once it reaches him," Kim supposed. "He's using his own pilots to fly the airplane, so if he manages to turn off the transponder thingy inside the plane no one will be able to track him. No government's going to allow him to get away with the gold, so –"  
  
"Let me guess," interrupted Ron, "it's up to us to stop him."  
  
"When isn't it?" she asked sarcastically.  
  
"True." He paused for a moment, buttering another piece of toast for Rufus. "Hey, do we still have to get that algebra sheet done by Friday? Because I kinda forgot it at home."  
  
"We could probably hop over to Middleton for a day, pick it up. Don't see much else we can do around here until they find Grim or Drakken," she observed. "And we'll only be a couple of hours away if Wade calls in another one of those rocket trip favors."  
  
"Awesome! This city's great, but the lack of Bueno Nacho is getting unbearable." Rufus nodded his head in agreement at this before engulfing the entire piece of toast in one massive gulp.  
  
"Gee, and I thought you wanted to do homework," said Kim, an eyebrow raised in a questioning slant.  
  
"Uh... yeah... homework too," he said haltingly, trying to recover. "But it'd be quite bon-diggety if we could stay away from space-travel for transport. Flying that fast just isn't natural."  
  
"Hey, if you want to make a five thousand mile trip for a plate of nacho's, you gotta make some sacrifices."  
  
"Good point." Ron's ears perked up, as did Kim's, when they heard a familiar sound issuing from Kim's pants. "Is that the Kimmunicator?"  
  
"Hold up." Kim pulled the ringing mini-computer from her pocket and switched it on. "Go Wade."  
  
"We've just got a hit on Drakken."  
  
"Well, we can scratch the going home idea," Kim said to Ron.  
  
"What?" Wade cut in, clearly confused.  
  
"Nothing," Kim explained. "Go on."  
  
"He's in Borneo, near some place called Samarinda." A map of south-east Asia, centered on Malaysia appeared on the computer's screen, with their quarry's supposed position signified by a small red dot. Though relatively near the coast, Kim could tell it was still a long hike from the nearest large town – so access would be a problem.  
  
"Any favors you can call in?" she asked. "We're gonna need to get there and back pretty quick."  
  
"None from my end," admitted Wade. "Why don't you try Finch?"  
  
"Good idea – can you patch us through?"  
  
"Sure thing."  
  
"Please and thank you," she said as his face was replaced by the oscillating green line superimposed on a black screen – the usual image if the phone at the other end line didn't have a video camera attached. "Mr. Finch – Wade's just found Drakken," she said when he picked up his cell phone.  
  
"I just heard about it – a British agent in Singapore reported a suspiciously blue-skinned man leaving the Metropolitan Hotel, heading for the airport. Your friend must have pulled it off our network."  
  
"Yeah – he's a hacker. I've tried to get him to stay on the legal side of the net, but he doesn't listen very well," Kim smirked.  
  
"As long as he's on our side, we don't mind." He paused, his deep intake of breath audible over the phone line. "We've discussed it over here, and everyone at Number Ten agrees that you should be the one to meet with Dr. Drakken."  
  
"Why me?" Kim asked, puzzled.  
  
"You're the only one we have who has had a good deal of contact with him. Or at least the only one who's itinerant," Finch replied, and Kim hoped he wasn't making a joke at Shego's expense. She might be a villain, but that didn't make it right to pick fun at her injuries.  
  
"All right – I'll go," Kim conceded. "You guys wouldn't happen to have a way for me to get there? Wade's out of favors for the moment."  
  
After a moment's silence, probably spent polling the room for transportation options, Finch replied: "I think we'll be able to provide you with something. Can you be ready in fifteen minutes?"  
  
"For sure," Kim said, glad they had gotten everything squared away so quickly.  
  
"We'll have a car waiting outside," promised Finch.  
  
"I'll be there." Kim switched off the computer, and turned to Ron, an apologetic look on her face. "Would you mind terribly staying back and keeping an eye on things for me?" she asked him, a pleading look on her face. "I need someone who knows the deal with Grim and Drakken and everyone – someone who'll keep his head cool."  
  
"And you're asking me? Remember, I'm not usually the cool headed one in the Possible/Stoppable team."  
  
"Right, but you know the score," Kim pointed out. "You and I are the only ones who've dealt with all of these guys – everyone else's just heard the news reports. I need to watch and make sure none of these guys do anything dumb – they all seem really ready to start shooting. And I think shooting Grim won't make this deal any better.  
  
"Don't worry Kim – Agent Stoppable is on duty. I'll keep the world safe while you're relaxing on some Pacific beach," he joked.  
  
"Correction Ron: sitting in some jungle hut trying to convince my arch- enemy to help me stop something he's been wanting to do since I met him."  
  
"You know, now that I look at it, staying here isn't all that bad," Ron observed, letting Rufus finish off that last piece of toast.  
  
* * *  
  
The same car that had picked the two teens up from Heathrow was waiting outside the hospital's main entrance when Kim stepped outside. The driver nodded in welcome as she slid into the backseat and once her seatbelt was buckled he pulled out into the street. Like before, the driver followed none of the posted speed limits and barely heeded traffic lights, but instead raced past other cars at almost twice their speed. Kim hoped, as they raced through a red light and cut down the center of a busy four-way intersection, that there was some kind of siren or strobe light atop the car to warn drivers. That or her life would be over so fast there would only be time for half of it to flash before her eyes.  
  
Quickly turning onto a motorway, the car sped out of the city, heading south-west past Heathrow and beyond the reaching tendrils of London's suburbs. For a few moments, as they shot down the M3 towards Southampton, Kim got a glance of the flat, green fields that made up a good portion of Britain's southern landscape. These were quickly replaced by houses and shopping malls as they entered the town of Camberley. Here, the driver exited the highway and veered south towards a place called Farnborough Field – where awaited, Kim guessed, her ride to Borneo. But as they pulled past the guardhouse at the field's perimeter fence, it looked like little more than a general aviation strip; and not a large one either. Nothing much sat on the tarmac outside a pair of large hangars, and that which did was no bigger than a Cessna. Previous experience told her that those aircraft would have trouble even making it to Frankfurt, so she hoped the driver hadn't confused Heathrow with Farnborough.  
  
But her chauffer seemed sure of his destination as he drove across the tarmac to the largest of the hangars, which sat seemingly unattended and unoccupied like the rest of the airport. As the car reached the giant, lime green main doors they began to heave open slowly, stopping with just enough room between them for the vehicle to slip through. The driver entered the dim hangar with the headlights switched off and, as if by memory, swung it back round to face the sole exit after driving forward a few meters. Stopping the car, the driver swiveled in his seat and spoke to the single passenger sitting in the rear:  
  
"This is your stop, Ms. Possible. Good luck."  
  
"Thanks," she said, climbing out of the car and looking around in bewilderment at the cavernous, shadowy hangar interior. Only when the sedan had pulled out of the hangar and the doors closed behind it, were the lights switched on. Shielding her eyes from the sudden glow of large fluorescent lights, Kim turned to face an aircraft she had only ever seen in magazines, or on Knowing Channel documentaries. It's tapered delta wings, perfectly rounded white fuselage and drooping conical nose made it hard not to recognize, even though the airline liveries it usually carried had been painted over and replaced only by the words 'Property of BAE Systems' in small lettering above the forward landing gear. A team of ground-crewmen, all dressed in spotless white uniforms, approached the giant craft and began performing their final pre-flight checks as Kim stood in awe near the nose.  
  
Another man, dressed in an orange flight-suit and who she presumed to be a member of the flight-crew, approached Kim from a series of tables covered in maps and paperwork. "Ms. Possible I presume?" he said in greeting, extending his hand to shake hers.  
  
"That's me. This my ride?" she asked, a hint of disbelief in her voice.  
  
"Yes ma'am. We should be ready to go within five minutes."  
  
"But it's the Concorde!"  
  
"Yes ma'am."  
  
"And this isn't a little bit of an extravagant use of a twenty-five million dollar aircraft [1]?"  
  
"We were told this was a matter of utmost importance, and in that case I've been trained to believe that nothing is too extravagant. Terribly sorry, forgot to introduce myself – Major Guilden, commanding officer of this aircraft and your pilot for the day."  
  
"Good to meet you Major Guilden. What can I do to help?"  
  
"Nothing at all – we've got the ground-crew finishing up a few diagnostic checks, and in the meantime I'll show you to your seat." He led Kim up the set of air-stairs and through the forward door into the cabin. It's fuselage smaller than that of most short-range jetliners, Kim had to fight the urge to duck her head as she stepped over the threshold. To her left was a series of cupboards, along with a narrow hallway the she guessed led to the cockpit. On her right, a single row of three standard sized airline seats had been installed just fore of a temporary grey bulkhead. Though it was slightly cramped, Kim could see how, by raising the armrests and stretching out across the seats, she could get comfortable. "Can I get you anything?"  
  
"I think I'll be fine, thanks," she replied, taking her seat on the right side of the aircraft and strapping herself in.  
  
"I'll just give you a brief rundown of our flight then. We should be taking off within five or so minutes, and then climbing to our cruising altitude of sixty thousand feet. Our route will take us over central Europe, and then into the Middle East over Turkey, Syria, Iraq and Iran. At this point, we'll drop to thirty thousand feet and below the sound barrier to join up with a tanker aircraft and re-fuel."  
  
"We can do that?" Kim cut in.  
  
"We've fitted it with in-flight refueling capabilities – for the extended flight tests we use this aircraft for," he explained. "After that, we leave land and head across the Arabian Sea and southern India before re-entering the Indian Ocean over Chennai. Then it's over-water for remainder of the flight until we reach Borneo."  
  
"And that's where I get off?"  
  
"Correct."  
  
"Okay. Anything I should know before we leave?"  
  
"Nothing I can think of," the pilot replied. "We'll reach cruising altitude within thirty minutes after we take off, so if you have any questions just come up and ask us." He glanced at a checklist in his hand to make sure he'd done everything before heading to the cockpit. "I've, ah," he paused, re-reading the telex printed at the top of the sheet, "been told you have some sort of portable communication device with you?"  
  
"Yup – this," Kim pulled the Kimmunicator out of her pocket.  
  
"I'm going to have to ask you to turn that off for the entire flight. Safety regulations," the man explained.  
  
"No problem." Kim turned the gadget off, and set it in the storage pocket beside her seat.  
  
"Great – there are magazines and newspapers in the compartment up here," the man pointed to the set of cupboards. "There's some food and drink stored further up the corridor in the galley, so help yourself if you get to feeling peckish."  
  
"Got it, thanks."  
  
The pilot nodded, and headed up to the cockpit and closed the door behind him. Checking her watch, Kim quickly got up and grabbed a few magazines from the cupboard, knowing there would be little else for her to do on the flight. A ground technician soon appeared at the open door, wished her good luck, and pulled the heavy hatch shut. Once the door was sealed tightly and the air-stairs pulled away Kim heard the muffled groan of the main hangar doors being pulled open. Slowly the aircraft began to move forward, being towed outside of the hangar before it's the four massive Olympus turbojet engines were lit, filling the cabin with a dull roar. Once the tug was detached from the forward gear, and the ground-crewman saluted the pilot in the universal 'clear to depart' signal, the jet began to move forward under its own power.  
  
Soon they were rolling down the taxiway adjacent to the main runway, stopping traffic on the perimeter road as drivers got out and gazed in wonder at the strange sight. Kim watched them in mild amusement for a few moments before turning back to her magazine. Feeling a shift in direction, she looked out the window to see the aircraft lining up on the runway, departure imminent. The pilots slowly pushed the throttles forward once they received the take-off go-ahead, and Kim felt the cabin rock gently as the engines spooled up. What was a dull roar turned into a full throated, earthshaking rumble as they reached full power, and the jet slowly began to roll down the runway. Even behind twenty centimeters of thick insulation and aluminum, the noise from the engines was deafening, and she hated to think of what it must sound like outside.  
  
As they quickly gained speed, Kim checked to make sure her seatbelt was fastened before returning her eyes to the window. Scenery whipped past the viewport, and slowly she felt the aircraft begin to rise from the ground, it's pointed nose aiming skywards. Pressed into her seat by the inertia, Kim watched as the jet lifted off from the ground with what looked like only feet of runway left, and climb quickly over the town of Farnborough. A muted thump signaled the retraction of the landing gears, and the aircraft began to bank right, vectoring towards the Channel. Sitting on the right side, Kim only saw the houses and fields of southern England before they disappeared into the clouds. With no moving map projected on a television screen and her window obscured by clouds, there was little else she could do besides read.  
  
The pilot was right; it did take them a little under thirty minutes to reach their cruising altitude and only a slight jolt, almost unnoticeable, was how she knew the aircraft had 'gone supersonic' and broken the sound barrier. With no Mach-meter on the bulkhead in front of her, and the uninteresting view of a cloud covered Europe below her, Kim had little else to do than read, and think about the task ahead. And as she contemplated how she would convince Drakken to, for once, bury their differences and help each other, she strangely found herself wondering what Ron was up to.  
  
[1] Sorry, don't know the exact asking price, so it looks like Kim doesn't either. 


	12. Holding Down the Fort

Chapter Nine – Holding Down the Fort  
  
Ron wasn't up to much. Following Kim's hasty departure he had wandered aimlessly around the hospital complex before taking up residence in the business center. With the arrival of Shego and her extensive police complement a gaggle of highly placed political and military figures had followed to check in on any new developments concerning one of the worlds most highly sought after criminals. Arrivals peaked with the linking of the Paris bombing to Grim and his smallpox threat; and everyone had since returned to their offices upon realizing that Shego wasn't talking to anyone other than Kim or Ron. But while they had waited in the various visitor's lounges, reading files and rifling through reports, these influential persons necessitated the installment of a secure communications center. The British government wanted to keep Shego's apprehension under wraps for as long as possible and knew that even with the most up-to-date encryption systems, secure cellular phones were a contradiction in terms.  
  
So a pair of London Metropolitan Police communications experts had commandeered the business center and transformed it into a miniature version of their central communications room back at the Yard. Secure phones and computers, high speed internet connections to intelligence services around the world; everything was shipped in within a matter of hours. Now, the small room had become an interim information clearinghouse for all messages concerning Grim until a more concrete base of operations was established. The two police 'techies' were replaced by their MI6 counterparts; men with security clearances high enough to read any and all traffic which passed before their eyes. Ron thought it the best place he could be to obtain the most current, accurate take on what he now called 'the Grim sitch', and so had taken up residence in the room's only unoccupied chair.  
  
Unfortunately keeping one's finger on the pulse of the world's intelligence community wasn't the most thrilling of duties, contrary to the Hollywood status quo. Most of the incoming calls and emails were of little interest to Ron since the majority were from agents reporting that there was nothing new to report. Briefs from other intelligence services were of a similar nature – 'the hunt for Grim is still on, but no new developments at this moment' was the most common of phrases. Though every half an hour a new update came in, the reports differed only in their times of arrival. As the minutes dragged on into hours, Ron began to wonder why – in the rush of packing before the flight to London – he had opted not to bring his CD player; or at least a pack of cards. The novel he'd picked up on an impulse at Middleton Airport was quickly proving to be the most boring collection of printed pages he'd ever laid eyes on. Not only was it a sappy love story, but an extremely bad one too. The characters were so predictable that he was almost to a point where he could guess the next line of dialogue and be right every time. Finally, he set the novel down and decided to search the hospital for a pack of crayons and a pad of paper to keep him amused, when the phone rang.  
  
One of the communications experts answered it. "Yes... One moment sir." He turned and held out the handset to Ron. "It's Mr. Finch."  
  
"Hello?" Ron said, placing the receiver to his ear.  
  
"Mr. Stoppable – I thought you might be interested to know that we've just received word of a possible Grim supporter here in London." Ron's ears perked at these words. "We're organizing a take-down operation, and I've got a spot open on the team. If you like, you can join them as an observer."  
  
"What kind of take-down operation are we talking about here?" Ron asked warily, visions of gunfights and house-leveling explosions filling his head. "Are we going up against some psycho wearing clothes made by DuPont [1], or what?"  
  
"We're not too firm on his mental disposition," Finch answered. "But our intelligence rates him as a minimal threat – he's probably just an intermediary, a middle-man for Grim's businesses."  
  
"So, we're not talking about some psycho with a bomb strapped to his chest and a will to kill that cannot be denied?"  
  
"Our sources say the most dangerous thing he could have in his house is a steak knife."  
  
"All right – I'm in," Ron accepted, knowing that watching a police raid was a whole lot more fun than reading some corny love story. "Where do I need to go?"  
  
"I'll have a team member swing by and pick you up. He'll take you to the Yard, where we'll get you suited up and briefed on the op."  
  
"And then on to this guy's house?"  
  
"Apartment, actually," Finch corrected him. "But yes. We plan to break in at 2 PM."  
  
"Sounds like a bon-diggity way to spend an afternoon," Ron observed.  
  
"Excuse me?"  
  
"Never mind."  
  
"Very well. Your ride should be at the hospital within twenty minutes, at the service entrance."  
  
"Gotcha," Ron said and placed the phone back in its cradle on the desk. "See ya guys," he said to the two men scrolling through reports. Nodding in reply, they didn't even notice he'd left until one got up to re-fill the teapot ten minutes later.  
  
* * *  
  
Post thirty minutes, Ron was sitting in the front passenger seat of the team leader's Alfa Romeo chatting while they drove across town to police headquarters at Scotland Yard. Andrew Johnson – the man sitting in the driver's seat – Ron learned, had been working in the counter-terror unit for the past few years, so he was the perfect choice for a break-in operation. Once at the Yard, he and Ron headed up to one of the many briefing rooms, where the rest of the team and Finch awaited them.  
  
"Sorry to be late, old chap," Johnson greeted Finch amicably. "Traffic was hell."  
  
"Don't worry – we've just started."  
  
Finch motioned for Ron to take a seat at one of the school-style desk-cum- chairs near the front while Johnson remained standing; nodding hello to his teammates. Finch, a metal pointer in his hand, turned back to a blown-up, monochrome satellite image of an apartment block and the surrounding area. A red circle highlighted the block in which their target resided, and superimposed arrows showed the planned entry into the structure. "We'll enter the parking lot from Highgate Lane," Finch pointed to the road that skirted one side of the block, "and park at the rear of the building. From there, one team enters through the fire escape, and the other through the rear door, here." He tapped two points on the map, one a set of metal stairs running up one end of the building and the other a doorway on the ground floor.  
  
Johnson took over from here, having read the surveillance report before he left his home in Luton. "Our target is on the third floor, about halfway down the corridor in number 317. The building's blueprints say the door is made mainly of plywood, and the landlord hasn't seen anyone installing a new one recently. According to his neighbors the target's completely harmless. They report no signs of a security system or reinforced doors, so this'll be a simple 'thrust and bust' break-in, lads." He pointed to a heavyset man, probably the largest in the room, sitting about three rows from the front. "Roberts, you'll be our lead man, with Lin and Higgins next. Two members will immobilize the subject, while the rest search the apartment. We're looking for anything on where this Grim chap might be hiding, along with any weapons the target has stashed away. It's a four room apartment, with the study and toilet to the left of the entrance, the kitchen and living area directly in front of the door. We expect the subject to be in the sitting room when we enter, but if not, the bedroom's off to the right."  
  
"Surveillance since nine this morning shows he's been sitting watching television in the living area since he woke up," Finch said, pointing to snapshots of the subject taken from an adjacent apartment building. The man was wearing a plaid bathrobe and boxer shorts, but little else. His mop of thinning brown hair and sagging, overweight body made him look harmless. 'But then, aren't all criminals at some stage in their lives?' Ron reminded himself. "He called in sick at eight, and his employer said he's been off work for the past two days – his excuse is a cold," Finch added with a smirk, clearly of the impression that Grim had ordered this man to take a few days off work.  
  
"We expect minimal violence from this target, but that's not one-hundred percent certain," Johnson warned. "We meet back here in thirty minutes for a final briefing and then over to Highgate Lane. All clear?"  
  
"All clear," the team responded as one, rising from their seats to go change in the adjoining prep room. Meanwhile, Ron waited in the briefing room as Johnson went down the hallway to pick him up some clothes. He came back with a pair of black pants and an equally dark ribbed sweater. From an equipment cupboard he procured gloves, a helmet, goggles and a pair of combat boots; all of which fit Ron exactly.  
  
By the time he was fully re-dressed – gloves and goggles in his pants' pockets, helmet in hand – and his day-clothes stowed in a locker, the rest of the team was back in their seats. With little new information on their target, the final briefing was short, and the team quickly headed outside to pile into an unmarked blue van. Ron sat back with the team, who introduced themselves one by one as the vehicle began to move out into the city streets. None of them seemed very tense or worried about the mission. From what Ron gathered from their faces this op was going to be a walk in the park, which was exactly what he wanted. Even though he hung out with Kim, action and adventure were never a favorite pastime of his. But as they drew nearer to the apartment block, the back of the van slowly grew more and more silent. None of the men joked, or tried to strike up a conversation with their teammates. The few minutes before a mission were each man's own, a time for him to prepare himself for what may lie ahead. Not a single one of them could predict exactly what might happen during the takedown, so it was best if they went in expecting anything and everything.  
  
When the van stopped at the end of Highgate Lane, Johnson turned back and checked his team was good to go. The answer was a unanimous, loud 'Yessir!' They were ready. Following the crackled 'go' from Finch over the radio, the driver hit the accelerator and sped down the road towards the apartment. They swerved into the parking lot, and circled to the rear of the building and stopped at its service entrance. A report from the surveillance team confirmed that the subject was still sitting in his pyjamas on the couch sipping a cup of tea and watching 'Eastenders'. Once out of the van the team split into two equal groups, one skirting the edge of the building to the fire-stairs while the rest entered through the service door. Like most other low cost apartments around London, it was unattractively simple, with the entire structure looking as if it had been built of large, slate-grey Lego blocks. Ron followed the second group in through the rear entrance, and up the central flight of stairs to the third floor. There they met the rest of the team waiting in the corridor across from apartment 317, with Roberts standing patiently at the head of the group, ready to break through the cheap plywood with a stiff shoulder.  
  
Once all the team was assembled around the door, Ron standing back watching, Johnson pumped his fist up and down silently to signal the commencement of the break-in. Roberts nodded in acknowledgement, and shifted his weight to his left foot before pivoting to the side and he kicking out with his right. With a loud crack, the sole of his boot connecting with the door's lock mechanism. The entire section of wood around the handle and lock were blown off by the force of the impact, and the door itself flew open to slam against the wall. It began to swing back into the doorway, but was rammed into the wall by Roberts' massive frame as he entered the apartment. Lin and Higgins, both almost a head shorter than Roberts but clearly the speediest members of the team, followed immediately after – both heading across the room to the target.  
  
"ON THE FLOOR!" they screamed in unison, pointing their submachine guns in the man's face. He quickly fell to his knees, his hands above his head and a mixed look of confusion and sheer terror plastered across his face. Roberts quickly pushed him to the floor, cuffing his hands and frisking his body for weapons while the rest of the team began to search the apartment.  
  
"Subject in custody, subject in custody," Johnson repeated into the radio clipped to his shoulder – his words transmitted instantaneously to Finch back at the Yard. "Proceeding to search the premises."  
  
Once the policemen fanned out from the cramped doorway, Ron entered the apartment to take a quick look around. It was the habitat of a blue-collar bachelor, filled with bland, uninteresting furniture and posters of scantily clad women on the walls. He looked over to see a pile of dirty dishes lying in the sink, along with a half eaten piece of buttered toast slowly staling on the counter. Seeing such an everyday abode both surprised and frightened Ron. He was used to dealing with villains who did nothing to hide their less-reputable tendencies, who liked living in underground lairs and foreboding castles – not low-rent, suburban apartments. But now he was faced with a new breed of villain – the quietly typical kind of guy, who went to work every day, had a beer with a few friends every evening, and planned how to exterminate all humanity during his free time. What Ron saw was the kind of person who could kill tens of thousands of people with a single vial or test tube, and no one would ever suspect him. To him, villains were supposed to be grandiose figures easily found and caught – not your local video store clerk or secretary. The man in front of him was someone he would have maybe suspected of small time shoplifting or double parking, not in the employ of a man bent on of decimating the world's population.  
  
"Sir, we've found something!" a team member yelled from the bedroom, interrupting Ron's thoughts. "I think you should take a look."  
  
Johnson entered the room, with a curious Ron right behind him. What had been a reasonably neat sleeping area had been completely dismantled by the takedown team. Drawers had been pulled out and rifled through, cupboards and closets emptied and searched. Even the bed had been moved, and the loose floorboards underneath it pried up with a crowbar. Everyone was gathered round one of these newly created holes, all eyes on something that lay in the shallow cavity beneath the hardwood floor. The team leader shouldered his way through, creating enough space for him and his observer to get to the source of all the commotion. What he and Ron saw puzzled one and terrified the other.  
  
It was a small, brushed metal canister; cylindrical and about the same length as a medium sized [2] Coke bottle. The twist off cap was sealed tightly shut, hints of a rubber gasket visible along its edges. But this wasn't what frightened Ron, who had raced back into the living room and was examining the captured subject. It was the small sign that had been spray painted in red on its side that made his stomach heave in terror as he looked at the pale, sickly face of the cuffed man. A set of three curved Y's superimposed on a small circle, their tails converging at the center of the circle and a single word beneath the insignia was what Ron was now vomiting in the bathroom over. The word on the canister – biohazard. Next to it lay something even more distressing – a small syringe, one usually found in a hospital, packed in a sealed Ziploc bag. Though he couldn't be sure whether it was imagined or real, Johnson thought he could see the glint of a liquid on the tip of needle.  
  
Ron was trying to calm himself down when Johnson reentered the living room, the rest of the team behind him. He said nothing to the teen, but instead quickly inspected the bound man still on his knees by the sofa. As Ron had, he found no definitive answer to what he was looking for; but like Ron, it scared him. Unlike the teenager he did not hesitate or lose control once he realized what his men might be facing. Instead he turned to his team and began issuing orders; his voice confident and restrained.  
  
"I want two people at every entrance to this building. No one comes in, no one goes out. If anyone gets within five meters of you, keep them at the entrance until either I or emergency personnel tell you otherwise. The rest of you need to go around to every room in this building and explain to the tenants that they are, under no circumstances, allowed to leave the area until I say so. If people are already out, find out who they are and when they will be back. I want a full list of residents – both here and absent – within half an hour." He then unclipped the radio receiver from his shoulder and brought it to his mouth. "This is Johnson. I have a possible bio-terror threat at 33, Highgate Lane. Suspected release of smallpox disease, unable to confirm at this moment. Requesting immediate assistance from Hat-Mat. Repeat – this is Captain Johnson of London Metropolitan Police. I have a possible bio-terror threat at 33, Highgate Lane. Suspected release of smallpox disease. Requesting immediate Haz-Mat assistance."  
  
"Copy that," Finch replied quickly, not wasting any time asking Johnson for more information. He knew what was going on; they'd just found the first of Grim's smallpox carriers. "Haz-Mat team on its way, ETA: six minutes. They request that you seal off the building and begin getting a list of residents."  
  
"Done."  
  
"Where's the virus? What's the release system?"  
  
"The subject looks sick sir – he's pale and has a slight fever," Johnson admitted, looking around at the horrified expressions on his team's faces. "We found a sealed metal container labeled biohazard underneath the subject's bed, hidden beneath a floorboard. There's a small syringe, no more than 50 cc's, lying in a Ziploc back next to it, but I have no idea if either have been opened."  
  
"Do we know how virulent this strand is?"  
  
"Nothing yet sir. Until we get the canister back to the boys at the lab, we just have to assume the worst."  
  
"What's that?" Finch asked already half-knowing and dreading the answer.  
  
"If it's variola major [3], only one third of people in this area will die," recalled Johnson from bio-terror reports he'd read constantly while on the police's counter-terror squad. "Flat or hemorrhagic though, will mean almost a ninety percent fatality rate. Even if we manage to quarantine the building, the disease will still spread around the city – and one infected person on an airliner will mean a worldwide pandemic."  
  
"Keep everything sealed off until the Haz-Mats get there," Finch ordered, trying not to dwell on the gruesome prediction. "I'll be along shortly."  
  
"Copy that," Johnson replied, ending the conversation. Placing the radio back on its shoulder clip, he turned to Ron. "You all right?"  
  
"I think so, yeah," Ron replied, trying to relax. "What do we do now?"  
  
"Wait. Just keep still and wait." The man paused for a minute, staring through the doorway at the canister lying beneath the bedroom floor. "Praying might help too," he added somberly.  
  
[1] 'Wearing clothes made by DuPont' is slang for being a suicide bomber. No clue where Ron picked this term up, he just did.  
  
[2] About half a liter.  
  
[3] The most common strain of smallpox. Check the Center for Disease Control (CDC) website if you want more information.  
  
Author's Note: Finally, the story perked up a little! If any of you noticed a slight slump in the plot (dialogue and not much else), don't worry, I did too. Just needed to fill in some background information and get characters moved around a little bit. I'll try not to do that again – you have no idea how monotonous it was to write, so there's pretty much zero chance of it happening a second time. Anyways, just want to thank all of those who're reading this story, even after the huge gap in updates. Oh, and review? I love 'em, so thanks to everyone who bothered. Next chapter up soon! 


	13. The Welcome Mat

Chapter Ten – The Welcome Mat  
  
Somewhere over central Turkey, just over an hour into the flight, Kim headed up to the flight-deck for a chat with the pilots. Knocking softly, she waited until she heard a muffled 'Yes' from behind the door before entering. Inside, the co-pilot was scanning his instruments and working the radio while the pilot filled out some paperwork. Behind them, facing the instrument covered starboard wall of the fuselage, sat the aircraft's flight engineer. Though the other two men were busy flying the aircraft, he was mostly free for the moment – having just finished his routine check of Concorde's systems – and so could talk to Kim.  
  
"Have a seat, Ms. Possible," he pointed to the jump seat on the other side of the narrow cabin. "How's the flight so far?"  
  
"Uneventful," was her truthful reply. "Though I do have a couple of questions..."  
  
"Go ahead."  
  
"Kay – any idea how long is this flight is going to be?"  
  
"You've got about six hours to go," the engineer replied, checking his statement with the flight profile on his desk.  
  
"So what time do we land?"  
  
"You'll get off at about eleven PM. The aircraft will land about an hour later," the man said, puzzling Kim.  
  
"And how will we go about that?" Kim asked curiously, having never parachuted out of a supersonic aircraft before. [1]  
  
* * *  
  
A little under six hours later, she was about to find out. Standing by the rear port hatch of the Concorde, she waited impatiently to exit the aircraft. Following her brief question and answer session with the flight- crew, she had spent most of her time on board looking through the magazines the ground-crew had stocked the plane with. Or at least trying to, since reading news articles about events that occurred two months previously is the kind of thing that only insane people like to occupy their time with. Staring out the window was another possibility as they shot across Asia at twice the speed of sound. Unfortunately, there was little way of telling that they were actually traveling any faster than normal commercial airliners, since at sixty thousand feet everything passes by at the same speed: slowly. And their unusually lofty altitude meant that everything from the smallest of hovels to sports stadiums equal in girth to the Coliseum were reduced to tiny grey specks on a vast continent of mottled green and brown.  
  
Even the in-flight refueling had been only mildly interesting, with a wide- body tanker aircraft floating about two hundred feet above and forward of the Concorde's nose, it's thin fuel boom bridging the gap between the two aircraft. Though she had been able to stay in the cockpit for the climb back to their cruising altitude and break the sound barrier, it had only been fifteen minutes in a seven hour journey. All of this combined had formed one of the most uninteresting voyages Kim had ever taken part in, and one that she was more than ready to end.  
  
Now, in a heavy black jumpsuit and a parachute strapped to her back, Kim was back to waiting until the pilots dropped to her twenty thousand foot jump ceiling. And standing around in the darkened rear section of the aircraft wasn't proving to be much more thrilling than the previous six hours of her flight. The only light she had to see by was the eerie green glow emitted by the portable altimeter strapped to her left forearm, making it difficult for her to make out even the exit hatch. Though she was well aware of a halogen lamp hidden in the Kimmunicator – now strapped to her right wrist –, she also knew that the lights were dimmed for a reason: night vision. When she jumped out of the aircraft, it would be at both a high speed and altitude. She needed all her senses working at their maximum, since one slip-up would mean certain death. Though she had done thousands of jumps before, none of them had ever been from so high; or in the dead of night over lightless, jungle-covered terrain.  
  
Fortunately, she knew the Brits hadn't scrimped on her equipment. The flight engineer had provided her with a large jumpsuit designed especially for high altitude dives, along with gloves, boots, goggles and a skull cap. All were matte black; no bare metal surfaces would accidentally glint in the moonlight as she fell Earthwards, tipping off anyone who wished her ill will to her position. Fitted with minute heating coils, the suit would to keep her from freezing to death in the -20° C temperatures outside – heavy padding did the job for the cap and gloves. But, though the gear was wondrous in its lifesaving capabilities, it lacked the mobility Kim was used to. The bulky gloves made it difficult for her to even grip the straps on the backpack; she feared she might be unable to find the rip cord for the 'chute when the time came. And the cap, while snug against her head through it's own elasticity and the form-fitting headband of the goggles, itched worse than the sweaters her grandmother loved to give her.  
  
Gripping a steel bar bolted securely to the wall just forward of the hatch with one hand, Kim used the other to scratch furiously at her head, trying to quell the annoying sensation. Her efforts proved to be an exercise in futility, and she was glad to be interrupted by a light above the hatch as it began to blink red. This being the signal that the aircraft was reaching its drop altitude, Kim checked her altimeter's LCD display to confirm that they only had one thousand feet to go. Once the Concorde leveled out and set its engines to idle, it took scarcely a minute for the engines to cool sufficiently for Kim to fall through their exhaust without becoming teen charcoal. As soon as engine temperatures reached this point the light switched to a steady yellow, the sign for Kim to open the hatch. Squinting in the low light, she groped for the controls protruding from the cabin wall and flipped open their protective plastic cover. After its security systems were disarmed – meaning the emergency slide would not be deployed when the hatch opened – she pulled the large yellow lever down to the position marked 'Open in Flight'.  
  
Bolts holding the hatch in place slid out simultaneously with a dull whirr. The entire section of fuselage then pivoted slightly on its hinges, pointing the leading edge of the hatch outwards. Though the pilots had brought the jet down to within ten knots of its stall speed, the air outside was still speeding past the aircraft at enormous speeds – speeds great enough to immediately slam the hatch back into the cabin. Guided by a set of grooves in the inner wall of the fuselage, it was pushed aft of the now open hatchway, and a series of clamps locked it in place.  
  
Kim now gripped the steel safety bar tightly as the air inside the plane's rearmost section rushed out into the night sky. To equalize the air pressure, the thicker air inside the cabin shot out of the open hatch with enough force to carry everything else that wasn't bolted down with it. Sensing a serious drop in ambient air pressure, the small oxygen tank strapped to Kim's right shoulder immediately kicked in, providing her with oxygen through a tube and mouthpiece strapped to her face. Without it, she would have been unconscious within seconds from a lack of oxygen. Once the pressure had fully equalized and Kim was able to release the safety bar, the light above the hatch glowed green, signaling the aircraft was over its drop zone and at the correct altitude for her to jump. In other words: go!  
  
Without a moment's hesitation she moved in front of the doorway and leaped from the jet, aiming her body outwards and downwards. The passing air caught her instantly, slamming into her like a thousand fists and flinging her body back along the remaining length of the fuselage. Though the Concorde's lack of horizontal stabilizers [2] meant one less thing to worry about, there was still plenty else for her to fret over. The most important? Altitude – she had to watch her altimeter carefully, and make sure she pulled her 'chute almost exactly after passing five thousand feet. If pulled too early, she would be stuck hanging in air too thin to breathe, and her oxygen supply wouldn't last long enough for her to get down into thicker atmosphere. And pulling it too late might result in her not having enough time to slow down, spelling out a very swift, gruesome end to Kim Possible.  
  
And then there was the issue of location – she had to stay within the ten kilometer drop zone until below the five thousand foot parachute ceiling. Once her 'chute was deployed a more precise landing zone could be established, but until then she needed to stay in the red area marked on her Kimmunicator. Though experience and high-tech gadgets on her side, maneuvering while in freefall was never easy. With her arms and legs spread- eagled to keep her speed relatively low, only slight movements with these appendages could – in the blink of an eye – veer her sideways by hundreds of meters. To keep this from happening, her arms and legs had to be as straight as possible, splayed out to reduce her airspeed. With the Kimmunicator strapped to her right forearm, it was difficult to even make out the map it displayed, much less the green dot representing her position. Shifting her eyes to the left, she saw that the altimeter was in the same position, its readout pointing skywards – completely unreadable. To her horror she realized that the two pieces of information she required above all else were now unavailable unless she wanted to pull her arms in and drop headfirst towards the ground. And only if she never planed on having to open her parachute, could this be done. Kim quickly realized she would need some help on this one.  
  
Pulling her right arm in to rip off the oxygen mask, she felt her body yaw to the right and angle downwards, her airspeed increasing until she moved the appendage back into line with its counterpart. "WADE!" she yelled over the rush of air, knowing he always kept a line open in case she or Ron got into any trouble. "WADE!"  
  
"What's up?" he replied, his voice barely audible above the rushing wind.  
  
"YOU SEE THAT DROP ZONE ON THE SCREEN?" she asked, still having to shout to keep her instructions as clear as possible. "I NEED TO STAY THERE!"  
  
Wade understood immediately and used his direct screen link to match the Kimmunicator's display to one of the many computer monitors in his room.  
  
"Gotcha KP, you're in the middle of the drop zone, drifting a little to the right," he told her, watching her movements all the while on his screen.  
  
"Great – keep me posted," Kim said, her voice low now that she was sure Wade could hear her. 'He's probably got a microphone in my throat,' she joked to herself, grinning inwardly when she realized it was probably true. "And could you tell me when I'm below five thousand feet?"  
  
"Sure thing – move a little to the left now."  
  
"Kay', I'm putting the oxygen mask back on now," she warned him, knowing that the sudden change in speed and direction would be a surprise to her friend.  
  
"No problem. Now head about three degrees to the right."  
  
These types of instructions continued for the rest of her two minute dive, finally ending with Wade calling out "You're passed five-thou." In response she flipped her feet downwards and yanked the candy-cane striped rip cord to release the 'chute. A sharp tug at her shoulders and the queasy feeling of inertia was all it took before the parachute was fully open above her head and she was floating groundwards. Tugging gently on the control cables to angle in on the landing zone, Kim was able to relax now that the worst was over. Lady luck shined on her as the full moon peeked through the clouds to illuminate her landing site; a small clearing just two clicks to the north. Just as the Concorde's flight engineer reported while he helped her don the flight-suit on, it was a clearing barely large enough to serve as a landing strip for very small aircraft. Nestled between two low hills; it was sheltered from the strong winds that blew in off the coast, making for an easy approach and landing.  
  
Kim came in over the treetops at about fifty meters; flying the length of the field before making a wide descending right turn. All the while scanning the clearing for any sign of humans, she saw nothing other than the crimson glare of the flare she supposed her contact had lit. Aiming just to the right of the flame, she descended quickly; angling up slightly as she neared the ground to keep from breaking her legs on landing. Pulling down sharply on the control cables only a meter above the field, she let herself glide for a moment before allowing the cables to slide through her hands, slowly dropping the 'chute to the grass. She hit the ground running, and jogged to a halt while unclipping the lines attaching her to the parachute. Turning around, she rapidly folded up the cloth into a tight, square package before removing her jump gear.  
  
First it was the gloves, followed by goggles and hat. She paused to straighten her hair before pulling it back out of her face with a hair-tie stowed in her utility belt. The jumpsuit proved much easier to remove than it had been to put on, leaving Kim wearing her usual mission clothes. All of the gear was wrapped up in the jumpsuit and placed next to the parachute, forming a pair of neat, army green packages. Scanning the clearing for signs of her contact, she noticed movement in the tall grass to her left and then directly in front of her. 'I don't remember the pilot saying anything about a second contact,' she thought, pulling out her night- vision equipped sunglasses to investigate. They showed a group of six men approaching her position – two from the left and three straight on – but were no help in determining who they were or what they were doing in the clearing. Once they were within earshot Kim hailed them.  
  
"Can I help you?" she asked, watching as the men froze. "Hello?"  
  
"No move! Quiet!" one of them hissed angrily, his voice heavily accented.  
  
"O-kay." Kim stood still, puzzled by this man's temper. The two men on her left emerged from the thicket of tall grass first, both were carrying Uzis. In a flash she knew these men were definitely not her contacts.  
  
For a second she prepared herself for a fight, tensing her muscles and crouching slightly, ready to front-flip her way past the two antagonists. But with the emergence of the other two armed members of the group, she knew surrender was the best option. Though fast, Kim knew she couldn't dodge a bullet, and so grudgingly allowed one of the men to tie her up. As he did this, and frisked her – a little too zealously in her opinion – for any concealed weapons, Kim spotted her contact. Now seated on a tuft of grass, his hands tied behind his back and his feet bound loosely together, he looked up at her apologetically. Dressed in one of those short-sleeved, brightly colored tropical shirts, Kim could tell his captors had little difficulty in finding him. He was a pasty faced, slightly overweight man with a thin mop of hair atop his head now slick against his round skull from sweat – both in fear and the oppressive humidity of the Bornean jungle climate.  
  
The man she guessed to be the leader of the band of armed men, an Oriental almost a head shorter and about forty years older than her, stood nonchalantly smoking a hand rolled cigarette as he examined his catch of the evening. With the gleeful smile of a man about to make a lot of money in return for very little work, he nodded to his team and turned back into the tall grass, following a route only he seemed to know. The other men, none of them older than about eighteen, pushed their captives into line and marched them through the grass, following their leader. Glancing back wistfully, she hoped her Concorde flight-crew wasn't expecting the parachute and jump gear back anytime soon.  
  
As they entered the dark forest surrounding the clearing, Kim looked back questioningly at her MI6 contact. Understanding immediately, he mouthed the words "drug dealers" in reply, receiving a stiff rifle butt in the back from one of the Orientals for doing so.  
  
"No talk – move," he ordered, and they continued to walk in silence through the thick foliage, now following a well used path through the jungle. Looking down at her wristwatch, Kim noted they had less than twelve hours to find Drakken and get him to the nearest airport for the return journey to London. If this deadline couldn't be met, there might not be enough time to mount an operation against Grim, and stop him from releasing the virus. Being late wasn't an option, and so Kim began to examine their chances for escape from this motley band of captors. Unfortunately, tied up and guarded by trigger-happy teenagers didn't make for an abundance of escape routes.  
  
[1] You may think she did at the start of 'Two to Tutor', but that was an ejection seat – a much more safe and controlled method of exiting an aircraft.  
  
[2] Those little wings set back at the rear of most aircraft also called 'elevators', and used to control the aircraft's rate of climb or descent and angle of attack.  
  
Author's Note (this should be read in that annoying man's voice used for film previews): With Ron slated for an early, gruesome demise and Kim held captive by drug dealers, what will happen next! Is this the end for our beloved heroes? Will Grim really get away with his devious plot? Tune in next... whenever I can be bothered to update. 


End file.
